Mrs Maturin
by MrsRJLupin
Summary: COMPLETED! Sequel to Every Cloud. It is now 1805 and Cicely's mission is complete - enjoy! Your opinions are always valued, I can see people are reading - a gold star to you for reviewing. Thank you for those people who encouraged me to write again.
1. Mrs Maturin

DISCLAIMER: ALL OF THE CHARACTERS AND SCENARIOS BELONG TO PATRICK O'BRIAN AND/OR MIRAMAX

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Captain Jack Aubrey, of the HMS Surprise turned over the crumpled sheets of paper that he had rescued from the Acheron before its departure back to Portsmouth. The paper was Persian backed and clearly expensive – nothing it would seem was too expensive for the French Naval fleet.

And sadly, for the French anyway, it was this love of expense and grandeur that had finally allowed the Acheron, a fast French frigate, probably the fastest on the high seas, to be taken by the Surprise, under Aubrey, and soundly beaten. Now, five months since it was sailed away, under the command of his first lieutenant, Tom Pullings, it had probably been anchored in the English port, been refitted and repainted in the King's colours before being piloted out into the Channel joining the rest of the English Navy.

Jack Aubrey put down the papers once again; clearly they were important enough that the former captain of the Acheron had the foresight to try to dispose of them before being killed by Aubrey himself however Jack's mastery of the tongue was somewhat shaky which is why he had asked his surgeon, sitting before him on Aubrey's expensive Queen Anne chair, to translate and decipher what was written.

"Wonderful news, I am delighted, Stephen," he said, smiling and pausing thoughtfully.

"…and you didn't suspect?"

With a certain degree of modesty, Stephen Maturin, ship's surgeon, commissioned naturalist and counter-intelligence spy lowered his gaze for a moment before looking back at his friend.

"My experience usually lies with the hatchlings of birds, Jack, not women. And. It will not do for her to remain with me now. My intent is for her to return to England." He folded his arms before continuing. "I have money enough for her to live comfortably however it is a worry to be sure where it is she will stay; her father believes her to be dead and as you know I have no escutcheon."

"Whereas I, however, do," replied Jack, getting to his feet, "and I will only be too happy to inform Sophie she is to welcome her." He took up the crumpled sheets again before handing them to Stephen.

"That is very gracious of you and I cannot deny that I hoped you would offer this." He looked away from Jack and back at the neat French words written as if they were almost printed onto the sheet of paper and began to translate them silently.

"Indeed. However from what I know of Mrs Maturin she won't like to be a lubber." Stephen looked up and stared into Jack's knowing eyes.

"No," he conceded, returning to the third sentence along on the paper, "but she'll do it if I ask it of her. I think maternity has given her a different outlook."

"Well, I have to say Cicely had a good influence on the crew however I trust that you keep her sufficiently busy that she does not excurse to the crew decks a-nights?" Stephen shook his head.

"She is mindful of my wishes, Jack," he confirmed. "She'll make a good mother, of that I've no doubt."

"How long will you be on Albemarle?"

"Five days. The albatross for which I am searching is to be found on the island's most north-westerly peninsula which and would appear to be nesting about now. I understand that I'll have to take the rowing boat a mile?" Aubrey nodded.

"The water is too shallow to risk the Surprise." Jack turned and began to pace towards the window, folding his arms and considering the horizon. At the lack of conversation Stephen Maturin looked up and frowned slightly.

"Do you wish me to be sooner?" Jack looked back and shook his head.

"You have earned the time, my friend, take it. I trust from the information you have confided to me that your wife will not be accompanying you?" Stephen shook his head.

"I do not wish her to come with me….can you…I do not wish this to be an imposition, Jack…"

"You wish me to occupy her here, make her feel required?" Stephen nodded, his face uncreasing as visible signs of relief flooded across it. Jack shook his head knowingly as Stephen continued to read the second page of notes before placing them back on the Captain's large oak desk. Jack took a quill and a few sheets of paper from his top drawer and handed it to his friend for the translation.

"Well, I do believe, my good doctor, that were you to put your efforts into untangling the mysteries of the fairer gender you may make yourself a tidy fortune."

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Cicely sat on the quarterdeck with her back to the thick wooden planks as she listened to Daniel Harris reading from the Bible. As she listened, her eye was drawn to Captain Aubrey's cabin door where she knew her husband would be imparting the knowledge that she had shared with him the night before last. From her vantage point she could just see the very edge of it and, as the wind tossed strands of her newly-growing hair around as the sun beat down, she wondered what the captain's reaction would be.

Well, Cicely speculated as she looked back at Harris, correcting his pronunciation of "reverential" and pointing to the next chapter and verse whence he should begin reading, it couldn't be worse than when he found out that Edward Hollum was her brother, nor when he discovered her true gender. Nor even when he reluctantly agreed to marry her to the doctor in order for her to fight in her brother's place to redeem his soul.

Cicely knew that he would probably be making arrangements for her to stay in England. In his home, perhaps, or with a friend despite her desperate desire to remain with Stephen. But whatever the outcome, whatever the two men agreed would be her fate she had promised herself that she would abide her husband's wishes.

Indeed, it would give Cicely a fine opportunity to investigate and work for her husband: naturalism interested her and she had taken the opportunity to read his books. In a few years his commission with the Royal Society would be worth a great deal not only financially but in prestige and honour. Academia which Stephen Maturin held dear and which Cicely held equally dear on his behalf.

"'ow was that?" asked Harris, a middle-aged seaman who had once been the cause, with other deckhands, of her misery when the whole of the ship's company believed her to be a boy. Cicely smiled at him and took the large leather-bound Bible from him and nodded.

"Excellent," she replied. "Good diction and punctuation, Daniel. Have you been practicing?"

Harris nodded, getting to his feet.

"Ar, lass. Mrs Maturin I mean," he added.

"Well, it shows," she added, smiling encouragingly. "Perhaps next time we'll tackle a psalm?" Cicely looked past the small-built man and at the next of the crew waiting for reading tuition.

"Right, ma'am," replied Harris, before saluting her and to the midshipman behind him as he strode off towards the steps that led to the gin decks. Cicely frowned as the middie sat down next to her and took the eagerly bible from her hands.

"I don't think you need any help with your diction and punctuation, Will Blakeney," she scolded softly. "Do you really wish me to hear you read?"

"No," he replied, shaking his head and frowning. "But it's the only way I can get to speak to you on your own these days, Sissy," he complained, gripping the book resolutely as Cicely tried to take it from her. "Why do you have to spend all your time with the doctor? You hardly ever come to visit us in the evenings! I can't remember the last time you danced a jig with us!"

Cicely tried not to laugh at Midshipman Blakeney, his face screwed up in annoyance at her absence when, not ten minutes ago he was striding around the ship berating men three times his age for not undertaking the tasks they were supposed to be doing.

"We are married, Will, the doctor and I," she explained kindly, stroking his hair comfortingly. "Married people spend time with one another. And Dr. Maturin has asked me not to spend as much time with the crew."

"But – " Cicely stopped stroking his hair and held his small hand softly.

"I think the captain believes me to be too much of a distraction. And, if you are sitting beside me rather than carrying out your duties then I'm inclined to agree with him."

"But – " The boy's big blue eyes stared beseechingly into hers, "will you come tonight? We'll be anchoring off Albermarle. He can't possibly object if we are not to be underway tomorrow. A jig, Cicely?" he pleaded.

Cicely sighed. She would happily have joined her ex-comrades every evening if she could. With the exception of one or two, generally the older crew who had one or two silent reservations, she was treated as one of them, as she had been when she had been disguised as a boy, her alter ego, Robert Young. To them, nothing had changed.

But it was the wishes of Stephen Maturin and Jack Aubrey that Cicely listened to now she was no longer a mizzenlad: even though both he and the captain had turned a blind eye to her sitting with the crew and joining in dances and songs she suspected that following her news there would come a time her husband would gently suggest other evening pursuits were more suitable.

"A jig," she repeated, smiling at Blakeney. "Well, I don't think I will be up to doing a dance of any kind in the months to come," she continued, noting the departure of her husband from the captain's cabin as he strode towards the lower decks.

"Why?" he pressed insistently, staring at her intently. "You're not…ill, Cicely…are you?" Cicely couldn't help but laugh lightly at his genuine concern and shook her head.

"No, Will," she replied as a thought crossed her mind. Should I tell him? she wondered.

"…but. Can I let you in on a big secret? One that you must promise not to share with anyone just yet?" William Blakeney nodded eagerly.

"Well." She stopped, wondering how she should broach this and smiled at Blakeney. "The doctor is about to become a father," she began, wondering whether this would be enough. Will looked at her blankly.

"And I'm to become a mother," she finished, wondering why this was harder than everything she had been through up till then. Will continued to stare at her impassively. Instinctively Cicely put her hand on her stomach and felt her face flush.

"I am expected to return to England for when the child is born…if it is a boy, Will, I would wish him to be a strapping lad like you; eventually a middie, then a lieutenant…" The boy beamed at her happily.

"I am soon to be a lieutenant, Cicely," he replied brightly, returning to the conversation at a point he recognised. "When we return the captain will accompany me to Somerset House and I will pass before the board." Cicely nodded and smiled.

"So yer expectin' the doctor's babby, lass?"

Cicely looked up and realised to her dismay that she had drawn a crowd. Indeed, many of her former colleagues, a dozen or more, were standing round her and Blakeney, looking at her intently as she surveyed them as whispers rippled amongst them with more, including her friend James Fillings and her former arch-enemy Joseph Nagel, at the back.

"Yes," she conceded, smiling at them happily. "I am."

"Then we salute you, ma'am," replied Harris, raising his arm, "the wife of the doctor…" He looked around the throng, nodding at the men.

"Huzzah!" came the cry from the gathered throng, throwing their hands to their brows before cries of "back to work!" were heard from the larboard causing them to turn, urgently.

"What? Salute Robert Young?" she replied, shaking her head, "One of your own?"

"Aye, Cicely," replied Phillips, an outspoken Scottish deckhand. "You're our mizzenlad, still; you're one of us…"

"Though not for much longer, lass," added Harris, scratching his rough, stubbly chin and grinning widely.

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In a modern town house in London the post arrived. It was placed on a small plate by the house's butler, who wafted any stray filaments of dust from its impeccable surface before holding it at arm's length.

Proceeding through the staff fore-room the butler hastened up the wooden staircase, bearing left and, glancing at the name of the recipient looked back to the drawing room door before raising a hand and knocking firmly.

"Enter."

The butler gripped the door handle and bore down on it, so the modern Georgian panelled door yielded his passage he looked up at the occupant, drawn from their otherwise single-minded task.

"Oh. Thank you Gordon. If you would be so good as to put in here." Gordon nodded, placing the small bone-china plate onto the occasional table before taking a few steps back folding one arm behind the other, watching as the occupant picked up the letter, looking at the heavily postmarked envelope. Although it was not his place to speculate or judge, nevertheless the butler pondered the distance the letter must have travelled before arriving on the secretary's desk.

"Will there be anything else?" The question caused the occupant to look up absently from the letter, frowning uncomprehendingly at first.

"Not at present. Tea, at four. Thank you Gordon. " The butler bowed his head silently before making his way back towards the door. As he closed it behind him he saw the occupant proceed to their writing bureau, picking up a quill pen and proceeding to write on the next sheet of paper on the desk.

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"Why is Sissy so sad, Joe?"

The young trainee mizzenlad looked up from the deck and looked in the direction of where Cicely would normally be, on the step near the main mast, pointing at a page in the bible for her pupil to read. Only today, the step was vacant, occupied only with wood splinters from the repair-work being undertaken for their journey back to Portsmouth.

The older salt followed the child's gaze and leaned heavily on his rough-haired broom, pondering her absence momentarily.

"She were expecting a babby, but it were born dead, Pizzy." The boy looked round at Joe Nagel, and the older sailor steadied the boy on his wooden leg as he gazed back, his rounded eyes growing bigger still.

"You know as, she were getting bigger in the belly. That was her babby. But then it died afore it were ready. An' she nearly went an' all…" He trailed off, handing Pizzy the broom as he scraped together the dust between two thin wooden beams.

"'er babby, Joe?" echoed Pizzy, looking round in wonder.

"'twas ill luck, that brung that about, and no mistek," commented Old Joe, from behind Nagel. Both sailors turned to look at him, as did the small group adjacent, ceasing their task of clearing the decks of wood. It had been a question of luck that had caused Joe to blame Cicely's brother Edward for their doldum-like listing in the Pacific almost six months ago and now their decrying of the old man's declaration caused him to hold up his hand in rebuttal.

"…no, not 'er…" he protested, clambering awkwardly to his feet. "Ill luck, I say. Fer the worst place to bring a babby inter this world is aboard a ship..." he swung round to the salts, insisting, "I'm tellin' ye…"

"Poor Cicely," declared another, who approached them, addressing the slacking workers far more informally than his rank bade him. Acting-lieutenant William Blakeney folded his hands together and glanced at the salts.

"Aye sir, we'll get back on it," began Nagel, Bonden nudging him in the ribs. Pizzy however had other ideas and scuttled up to their commanding officer, tugging at his breeches.

"Have you seen 'er, sir? 'ow is 'er?" His blue eyes twinkled in concern at Blakeney and the senior officer stooped to the boy's level and ruffled his dirty blonde curls.

"She is with the doctor now," he whispered to Pizzy, unpeeling a grubby hand from the fabric of his breeches gently. "She is well I believe." Will's eye caught the rest of the group, who were craning to hear the news and he stood to his full height.

"And when she is, I expect she will not appreciate her pupils being absent from her classes because of – _slack – workmanship_!" He surveyed the seamen, trying to sound authoritative and scrutinised the half-finished work that lay about them.

"Aye aye, sir!" chorused the men, saluting Blakeney firmly as the soon-to-be lieutenant folded his arms.

"And Mrs Maturin," he added, sighing towards the quarterdeck, "she _is_ well…"

The sailors watched as William Blakeney made his way back across the mizzendeck, idly stepping over a patch of unscrubbed deck, before turning and rebuking the lad whose job it was to clean it…

…it had been he who had found her, almost two days before…

…Cicely had been coming up from the doctor's cabin to see the Captain and she had stopped to speak to Will.

"I have been searching for the last few days and if I didn't know better I would say the doctor does not have any books at all on the grey-headed albatross," she commented, shaking her head and smiling at the lad.

"No Cicely, he does not," replied Blakeney, unable to conceal his grin. A look passed across her face before she patted Will on the arm and wondered aloud why it was that her husband had made her search through all of his reference books for one that didn't exist, and now he wasn't here to make use of it in any case, when realisation hit her.

"What a man I married to that would wish to divert me on a wild goose chase such as this…" she continued, before breaking off suddenly and reaching for the wooden timber wall outside the cabin.

Then the captain had come and had invited her inside whereupon (from what Blakeney could hear through the door) they had discussed the new discoveries which would earn her husband fame before a heavy thud had caused Captain Aubrey to throw open the door…

…pain…like nothing Cicely Maturin had ever felt…coursed through her body now…not even flesh wounds that she had suffered in the battle, nor those from endurance as work of the lowliest of the crew in the preceding months…

The doctor was still on Albemarle Island when she collapsed before Jack Aubrey inside his cabin and though men had been sent to find Stephen, he had beckoned Blakeney in to talk to Cicely as she slipped into unconsciousness on the worn oak planks by his desk.

His mind numb and empty of all but the task that was assigned to him Midshipman Blakeney stroked Cicely's hand as he watched the captain of the Surprise kneeling in a pool of blood on the cabin floor, a tiny lifeless infant in his hands…

…by the time the doctor had arrived too late…

"So what will she do now, do you reckon?" said Bonden as he stooped to catch the next lot of wood shavings from the repairs that were going on above their heads.

"Not for us to say;" replied Phillips, "there's many a babby been born on a ship, and many lost; none so more 'as we all love as dear as 'er, though."

"Nothing the doctor can't sort out though," replied Barrett Bonden, catching the next wood pile by his feet before striding towards the ocean and throwing the wood fibres into the deep blue sea. "No doctor better than he…"

"Get on with it!" shouted Blakeney, down the full length of the mizzendeck, "or else!" Without another word Pizzy bent his good knee and began to sweep the fresh snow of wood shavings into a pile, the shine of his recent appointment as mizzenlad dulling momentarily.

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Cicely had not been the same since her pregnancy. From finding out she was expecting a child to its loss and each day since she had willed the wind to sail on her side so they could get to Europe quickly. Presently they were in the Indian Ocean, only a fortnight from Jeddah. She looked across at her husband, who continued to write in his journal, picking out details from his text book and pulling out strands of field notes and wished she could feel as she once had done about their marriage; joyful and happy, not miserable and melancholy as now.

Turning her head, she looked from her vantage point in Stephen's once-redundant hammock strung by the window close to the desk and pondered the formation of the foreign sea fleet who they were now approaching and wondered whether she should mention again to him her contentment with the arrangement, or whether he would mistake her intent.

Sighing softly, she recalled when Captain Aubrey had sat in the chair whence her husband was busying himself now, and had informed her that he had written to his wife Sophie, informing her she was to expect Cicely from the last month of her pregnancy. Cicely had not doubted his reasons for visiting her then and she conceded more for his satisfaction than anything that a man-o'-war was no place to raise an infant. However she'd also suspected that it meant a great deal off Aubrey's shoulders for her to be out of his direct jurisdiction, especially considering, Cicely mused, casting her gaze at the foreign ships afloat outside the window again, their reason for rejoining the Royal Navy in the Atlantic.

Dr. Maturin watched his wife gaze out of the window as he looked up from his "Micrographia" and considered her care-worn face. The loss of the child had almost been too much to bear himself and he often wondered how she had been able to handle the loss, so calm and placid on the surface that she was, and he pondered the cause of her apparent peace.

Would she have wanted to raise a child anyway; was she suitable? Was she homely enough? Cicely analysed her feelings as she watched the crew of the nearest vessel set their main sail.

But it would have been _their_ child. The ship's child. And the terror she had experienced was like nothing she had ever felt before…even on the coldest night away from home, all those months ago when she began her search for her brother Edward…when she wondered whether she should turn to Aubrey and stop the wedding…or falling from the deck of the Acheron mid-battle…

"I still wish to return to England, Stephen," Cicely said eventually as she turned from the naval manoeuvres being played out on the water and smiling at her husband. "I will be able to carry out the research for you into the albatross…"

"You will still mourn our child," he replied, returning the smile and leaning over and patting her hand. "Jack feels terrible for not being able to do more. I did point out that where marriages were part of the Captain's remit pregnancy was not."

Jack had insisted on tending her in his own cabin after her miscarriage, refusing access to even Higgins until the doctor had arrived. As she lay in a semi-conscious state, soaked in blood and sweat the manner in which he had spoken to her, tenderly and calmly, was such that Cicely had not imagined possible. But it had been too late, for their infant son could not be revived, and according to Stephen she had lost so much blood she was lucky to have survived herself.

"Had he not been there as it was, I would not be here. There will be other children, Stephen. And this is your work on natural science. That is also our child, which must be raised and nurtured." Cicely smiled as her husband kissed her on the forehead.

"Then a wise decision it is, my love," he replied, taking his hand from hers and picking up his quill, scrutinising the entries he had written without taking in a single word. One that I hope I can bear, he thought, with such an uncertain future ahead.

Around them, four bells tolled out, signalling one of several events in the ship's day and he glanced at his wife who had returned her gaze to the view from the cabin window and was again lost in thought.

Returning his quill to the large oak desk, Dr. Stephen Maturin got to his feet, glancing at Cicely once more before leaving through the cabin door and heading towards the quarterdeck.

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Sophie Aubrey was nothing like Cicely had imagined. Far from being prim, haughty and society-hungry, the woman was well built but daintily refined and fiercely intelligent. On first appearances she could not see what the rugged, masculine captain of HMS Surprise would have in common with her.

In addition, she was an accomplished musician and artist, which explained most of the paintings in the Aubrey household, including one of Jack with the Surprise in the background. She was sure Aubrey would be proud of it and Cicely found herself nodding in agreement as the transcendence of affection echoed in every facet of Sophie's life.

It seemed that Jack had kept his wife informed of the mere briefest details of her guest and it surprised Cicely that while the woman seemed tolerant the confines of society, one that she had herself shunned almost two years ago, appeared to remain.

"You do not look eight months," commented Mrs Aubrey, as they settled in the modern dining room set with the latest cutlery and fine china and Cicely had smiled back, politely explaining to her the situation which had led to a stunned silence while Cicely recounted everything in the stunned silence that followed, from her decision to find her brother to her loss of her son to her hostess…

...standing on the wharf awaiting approval as a mizzenlad…arrested by the marines…climbing the mainsail to rescue James Fillings…Edward's suicide…being married to the doctor…fighting for in her brother's name…John Fotherington…

…and Jack's kindness when she miscarried…

"Please do not get the wrong idea, Mistress Aubrey," Cicely protested, when Sophie Aubrey dabbed her lips wit her serviette and gave her a long look. "He came to my assistance, nothing more." Cicely felt her anxiety wane as Mrs Aubrey laughed, like a tinkling bell.

"Of course; my husband has many talents, even ones that he would not admit to himself," she laughed. "I expect you worried him greatly Cicely, both as yourself and as you alter ego…Robert Young…?"

And with that, for the first time in her life, Cicely was at ease in societal company.


	2. The Rising Storm

DISCLAIMER: ALL OF THE CHARACTERS AND SCENARIOS BELONG TO PATRICK O'BRIAN AND/OR MIRAMAX

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Currently occupying a large, officious room overlooking a wide courtyard on this bright early summer morning two men stood, eyeing each other beadily as they savoured their presence in each others' company with distaste bordering on the intolerable.

The building itself was part of their cause: a room in a long-rented property from the army was situated along a busy thoroughfare of London and while their business was far from public to the first man, a tall, thin man, whose affairs ordinarily would have kept him far from any sort of public gaze the noise of traffic on the street adjacent was beginning to distract him.

The second man couldn't have been more different. Red-faced and brusque, this man was used to giving orders and had been a high-ranking officer before the lure of the desk and papers offered a more comfortable appeal.

Every so often, to the frustration of the first, the second man would focus on the activities of the military recruits, whose presence were undoubtedly a smokescreen for the covert activities undertaken here and the first man could see that the second was not giving their conversation the attention it was due.

Finally, the second man broke his eyes from the trainee soldiers who, reckoned the first man had practiced the same manoeuvre at least twenty times that morning and turned his attention to a letter that was sitting on the expensive teak desk.

"Do you know, Wickham," intoned the first man loudly, his handlebar moustache twitching under his nose as he spoke, "I have never come across such brave a feat as the one I am privy to right in this letter!" He slapped the letter with the back of his hand and William Wickham watched as the disturbed air around it wafted other papers outwards.

"Yes," replied Wickham, eyeing his equal with a look of mild distain. "I read the letter." His look of disinterest seemed to anger the second man, whose face grew redder at Wickham's clear insubordination to his irrefutable authority.

"That's the surgeon of Aubrey, don't-cha know," he boomed, slapping his hand back on top of the letter as William Wickham returned it to the desk. "You know, the one who rid us of the treacherous Fotherington. In the pay of Fouché don't-cha know, Fotherington!" The second man reclined stiffly against the heavily embroidered chair pad that luxuriously adorned the large majestic chair whose grandness, Wickham noted astutely, did not match the status of the man bearing down his weight in it.

"So I am led to believe, Hamilton – hm-hm," consciously clearing his throat, Wickham wondered how long he would be kept in this meeting for the last "short meeting" he had endured with Hamilton had lasted almost an hour.

"However Fouché has more spies out there; more zealous than Robespierre. Three of our men have been guillotined and – " Wickham broke off as Hamilton bayoneted him to the far wall with his glance before leaning forward and banging his fist upon the letter again, this time upsetting his ink-bottle. Wickham watched silently, a feeling of mild amusement quelling in his mind as he watched Toby Hamilton trying to blot up the ink with the already well-blotted blotting paper.

"Nevertheless," replied Hamilton at length, giving up with the residue of the ink as some of it ran to the edge of the desk and began to drip onto the once-beautiful carpet before seeping between its fibres, and Hamilton threw down the blotting paper before looking up at Wickham, returning the conversation to the point of their meeting. "Aubrey's man…the surgeon…"

"Maturin…our man in the South Seas. The Feinian. What of him?" Wickham shifted from one foot to another as Hamilton refolded his arms and returned his expression from embarrassment to gruff bluster.

"He's rumoured to have married a…a…" Hamilton grasped up the now-inky letter and glimpsed at the ruined words scribbled on the back, "a _mizzenlad_, if you please! By he name of Hollum…! Ridiculous!" Turning, Hamilton balled up the letter and threw it into the flames of the small fire that flickered lazily in the grand hearth. Wickham watched its trajectory and its fate before looking back at Hamilton, flicking the man a small, polite smile.

"Ridiculous indeed. He may indeed have married," he conceded, nodding pre-emptively towards his intelligence colleague and Hamilton hmphed in agreement. "The certificate should be lodged with Somerset House by now…what with the man's counterintelligence role, we cannot be too careful…"

Slowly, Wickham folded his arms across his chest, waiting for the inevitable acquiescence of his decision by Toby Hamilton. _Sir_ Toby Hamilton, Will Wickham corrected himself in mock-reproach. With societal connections.

"Maturin…" pondered Hamilton, getting to his girthly legs and lumbering over to the leaded windows before turning back to Wickham. "I _do_ recall that name…and I recall…he met his death on Heard Island…" A crease folded into Hamilton's plump, ruddy face and for the first time uncertainty unfolded across his features.

"How peculiar, Hamilton. Well, that's obviously a mistake. I'll – "

"Look it up, will you?" Hamilton cut across him, to Will Wickham's expressionless annoyance. "Perhaps it's not even the same man. In any case, it's obviously a mistake…"

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In the light of the dying sunlight Cicely drew a chain of jewels to her neck as she watched the gnarled fingers of tree branches silhouetted against it, their branchlets velveted with the promise of new life. Behind her, the Aubrey household's maid, clearly a maid of all work (for she had brought Cicely breakfast on a tray each morning in her room since she had arrived here, and supper when Cicely had felt far from wanting company) stuck Cicely's arms out so that she could smooth down the fabric at the back of her dress.

Not her dress thought Cicely, as she watched absently at the waving branches; nor even the jewellery. She had arrived at Litten Hall in Surrey, almost two weeks ago with nothing more than a dress that Cicely had promised Stephen she would buy in Portsmouth, a letter given to her by Captain Aubrey for his wife and (much to Stephen Maturin's undoubted belated annoyance) one of her husband's notebooks detailing the habitat of a flightless bird that had inhabited the island of Rodondo and had caused him to spend much of his time puzzling over its existence.

"'s a very lushing outfit, madam, if I'm not too bold to say," commented the maid, a woman of around Cicely's own age, or maybe a few years older in a clipped Wiltshire dialect. "A fine choice of my lady's frocks."

"Yes," replied Cicely, smiling at the maid, whose name was Mary. "Mrs Aubrey has been most kind to me, Mary; I could not have asked for a more gracious hostess. Even after I told her about her blue dress." She continued to smile as Mary returned it for it had been she with whom Cicely had first shared her story, not in too great a detail, but enough for the woman to marvel agog at this visitor who had chosen to entrust her with a wonderful secret.

"Why, I did tell thee that my Lady would not be mindin'," replied Mary as she stepped round behind Cicely and she began to lace the outer ribbons of this smart coral gown, pulling the bodice tightly around Cicely's ribcage. "The master does indeed spoil her…that is, my Lady describes it so," Mary added quickly. "The master sends her at least one from each port; it is a wonder to my poor mind that he has time to conduct any warrin'."

"He does, though," replied Cicely, smiling again. "We battled a French frigate in the Pacific and challenged another near Singapore, but the Parlez-Vous didn't want to play," she laughed.

"Aye," replied Mary, stooping to her hem in order to smooth her petticoats, "and to my reckonin' your Dr. Maturin wasn't too pleased that you offered your services to the master again," she added and Cicely's mind drifted to that morning, when the large wooden enemy roved into view upon a portentious, atrabilious horizon. She had thought nothing of stating her intent to Jack Aubrey, even though she knew he would, following her miscarriage, be united with her husband and he had gently insisted, counter to her fervent obduracy that should danger impinge she should not object to being locked in the doctor's cabin.

As Mary uncurled Cicely's arms again, so the dress's sleeve fabric could be fussed over Cicely's thoughts turned to the moment that she had last seen her husband; not fifteen minutes after purchasing a very ordinary grey gown from a shop on the Commercial Road. He had escorted her to a carriage which would transport her directly to Reading, thence to Ashfield, and thence had Mrs Aubrey sent a private carriage to Litten Hall where she had been greeted, well – as any guest should be by a hostess.

Mrs Aubrey had not appeared to be perplexed in any manner by her appearance at her home, nor still by the instruction that she should remain there until Aubrey had sent word again. Perhaps it was Cicely's indefinite manner that had reduced their conversation to mere pleasantries; she was sure that Mrs Aubrey was indeed a fine hostess, and a fine woman. However Cicely had found she had little in common with Sophie, who was more advanced in years than herself and was deeply connected to her social circle. Perhaps that was why she had confided a little of her life these last two years with Mary the maid, rather than Sophie Aubrey (although only just enough without going into hazardous detail).

And now it was Mrs Aubrey's society that had Cicely dressing for the occasion that evening; two days ago she _had _spoken to her about her sadness at being parted from Stephen; about the heartache she was feeling along with numbness. About how it had been only his notebook, tucked inside her new linen dress pocket, which she had curled tightly in her hand as the carriage from Deal Street had began to transport her yard by agonising yard that had stopped her from leaping out of it and running back to him – him: her wonderful husband who made her so happy.

Sophie Aubrey had then informed her the following morning that she had organised a dance at the Hall, for tonight and, pre-empting Cicely's declination on the grounds of nothing appropriate to wear had offered her free choice from her moderately large wardrobe.

"There now," said Mary, putting Cicely's arms unnecessarily back down to her sides, posing them as if she were a doll and smiling with satisfaction. "I must say madam, that I do not believe my Lady has carried that gown off as well as you do now." She took a few steps back, looking Cicely up and down, waiting for her to return the smile. Instead Mary's own smile evaporated when Cicely thrust her fists against the dark ruches to her sides in frustration, hanging her head which Mary had adorned with pearls almost an hour ago.

"Madam?" said Mary, her tone changing from contented anticipation to shrill alarm and she advanced slowly and tentatively towards Cicely. "What's wrong? Are you feeling ill, madam? Shall I fetch the mistress?"

Cicely continued to look towards the Persian carpet that looked reasonably new, and reasonably cheap, inching her eyes along the frontiers between the colours but loosened her fists. For she was quite unsure what had made her feel like this but she knew, for the sake of her hostess that she must get over it.

"No," whispered Cicely quietly, her voice to her own surprise cracking slightly. "No," she repeated and lifted her head. "Do I look well enough for Mrs Aubrey?" she added, trying to relax the tension in her shoulders.

"Aye," replied Mary, though she didn't sound very convincing. "You look very well. And if I can be so bold, especially after your ordeal." At her words, Cicely's expression changed from vague hope to confusion.

"Ordeal?" she repeated and Mary smiled, knowingly.

"Aye, madam. I don't suppose it's my place to say…I lost a child too, once." The corners of the maid's mouth turned up but there was no happiness in the smile. "Madam was kind enough to take me on, though she and the master have no need for me _and_ Betty. Nearly ten years gone, 't'were. But I can remember it like it were yesterday."

Suddenly, between the two women, a change occurred as they exchanged looks; a look between people with something in common that transcended any artificial social standing. Before Cicely had a chance to say anything, Mary continued.

"It will hurt less, and 'tis better to keep busy rather than not. You won't forget, but – "

" – wouldn't want to forget," replied Cicely, a serene tone entering her voice and she focused on an oil painting of an arrangement of flowers that hung on the chimney breast of the wall. "He was our child, even for a short time." She looked back quickly at Mary and she nodded back briefly at Cicely.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. As Sophie Aubrey opened it, she began to speak, her tones light and full of anticipation of the evening ahead…tenors in which Cicely vaguely remembered her own mother speaking to her before dinners and dances at her family home in Gloucester, with lightness and laughter just below the surface.

"…and Mrs Maturin is ready, I see?" she finished, her usually prudent and sensible features lit with exhilaration as she took in Cicely's appearance. "And making another of my gowns look as it should be worn, rather than as I would wear them, "she added, making Cicely pink with mild embarrassment. "Wouldn't you say so, Mary?"

"I would indeed, mistress," replied Mary politely, smiling towards Cicely again. "Not a dress for cleaning the kitchen in, I believe," she added, adding to Cicely's mortification as she reminded them of the time Cicely had ventured into the kitchen, almost a week ago and, spurred by an inward desire to not only earn her keep but to reconcile her longing for being aboard ship, had set about scrubbing the flagstone floor until Betty had found her and unceremoniously shooed her out.

"You'll be the belle of the ball, this evening," concluded Sophie Aubrey as she held out a hand towards Cicely. "A little beauty."

And had Cicely not actually been keeping up some measure of a pretence since the moment she had arrived at Litten Hall the shock she was feeling might have shown on her face and in her gait as, all at once, another reason for her awkwardness and unwillingness to socialise surfaced in her mind: that was an expression that her father used to use in reference to her as she forced herself to attend endless social and society events. Events where she knew her father would be using her as matrimonial currency in the drawing room at the end of the evenings. Magistrate Wigg even used the phrase to her face, so she knew her father must have bandied it around there too.

As she descended the grand stairs that rose from the centre of the Hall like a becarpeted, double-tailed serpent splitting the steps in two directions; as the noise and clamour of chattering and conversation grew louder Cicely commenced her forthcoming engagement as Mrs Aubrey's guest of honour as she descended into the beast's wide open, hungry jaws.

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For three long hours actress Cicely Maturin played the role of her life. From the first flourishes of introduction, smiling and nodding politely to Mrs Aubrey's guests and straining her whole gamut of phrases expressing her delight to be in such esteemed company, to the small-talk of society status, of who was related to whom and who knew whom, which other society each of them has enjoyed in the past few months and the pastimes of the women contrasted with the achievements of the men.

An hour of society talk had driven Cicely to the outskirts of the main social hub, close to the beautifully brocaded curtains that dressed the large windows that they themselves framed with magnificent simplicity. Behind her she could hear snatches of conversation, about London and the court, about recent purchases and acquisitions and Cicely's eyes scanned the darkened garden as the lofty trees blowing struck a chord in her, reminding her of the masts of the Surprise swaying in sea breezes…

…her mind drifted to her last night at sea, when Stephen uncharacteristically allowed her to sit with her former mess-mates. What would they be doing now were she with them?

A jar of rum or ale apiece (not that she'd actually drink it herself) with the wind on her skin and her friends around her, jack tars the lot of them. One of them would strike a note and another would pick a tune. Then they would all be singing and making merry…another would make a wry comment which would lead to a story or a tale of adventure…

So very different to here…there, that was where reality lay, not like here: showy and false with airs and graces, fanciful ephemera and gilt, where people looked down their powdered nose at you if you weren't wearing the latest up-to-the-minute from London (which is what one rather rude daughter of a gentleman had done that evening at Sophie Aubrey's best dress). Time was she could (with her father's money) afforded it and she had angered him on more than one occasion by attending a social gathering such as this in highly unfashionable clothing and making contrary remarks to all of the guests…

Cicely's heart began to grow heavy as she tried to extinguish the longing of climbing into a hammock or a bunk next to Stephen, to be lulled into beautiful slumber hastened by hard rather than a static and still one where little or no energy had been expended and the mind was uncomfortable and disturbed.

And now, as she was introduced to yet another guest Cicely smiled and nodded politely as she compared the agonies of the evening to her gruelling work aboard the Surprise and she was not sorry to believe that she would far preferred battening down the rigs in a gale in the Straits of Magellan than this hotbed of frivolity and as an older and nearly deaf lady clapped her on the arm.

"…and how do you like Surrey, Mrs Maturin?" The lady, who turned out to be an owner of three lines of merchant ships docking in Bristol, had somehow picked up on the fact that Cicely knew something about the sea and had cornered her near Mrs Aubrey's mahogany long dresser.

"Yes indeed, Mrs Forrest, very much," Cicely nodded back, well rehearsed if a little rusty in the manner of addressing elderly widows, "although I have seen little of the county yet…"

"Hm," replied Mrs Forrest, "mush," she added, her wrinkles creasing on her already well-lined face as she took a sip of the sherry in the minute glass in her hand, before taking a step towards her. Cicely smiled politely at the lady's mishearing.

"My son Rupert, he is bringing in over three thousand a year," she continued, her voice cracked and old, "and that's just from the Americas. Costing him a fair guinea in repairs from the Frogs though – did you encounter Frogs, Mrs Maturin?" She nudged Cicely again.

"What? No. Well yes," Cicely began, trying not to give anything away about her life over the last few years. "Why do you ask, Mrs Forrest?"

"Arts? No dear. My son is a businessman. He's a very clever businessman, my Rupert, very good at spotting opportunities. The sea'll make him rich, I fancy," Mrs Forrest added proudly.

"The sea is very fickle," commented Cicely, smiling at the old woman. "Sometimes it gives, and sometimes it takes."

"Snakes? Oh no dear," replied Mrs Forrest. "At least, not in Surrey. Perhaps in the wilder counties, perhaps the North..." She looked at Cicely critically, as if examining a portrait or sculpture. "What of your family, dear? Where in this land do they herald?"

Cicely exhaled as she felt a few beads of sweat bejewel her forehead. Her family did not life in this country, not on the land at any rate. Her family was aboard the "Surprise", making merry with song and story, offering advice and trading stories…her family was…absent from her…

"Not here," replied Cicely, trying not to let the sorrow press so tightly on her chest that she couldn't breathe. "Many miles away, Mrs Forrest. I have spent such time abroad that my family is aboard ship," she conceded, smiling widely at her veiled admission of her secret to a stranger.

"Vilesway," repeated Mrs Forrest, watching her lips intently, "I can't say I've heard of that town. So, you've been aboard ships, Mrs Maturin?" Mrs Forrest nodded as Cicely smiled.

"My husband is a surgeon," Cicely conceded, allowing herself another smile. "A very talented man…"

Just then, she felt a hand on her shoulder and she turned to see Sophie Aubrey smiling widely at her. Mrs Forrest smiled at her hostess too and Mrs Aubrey stepped towards her.

"Mrs Forrest," she said loudly, "I do beg your pardon. It seems I have been remiss in duty as a hostess. Mrs Maturin is a stranger to this part of the world and I promised that I would introduce her to everyone tonight." She looked across at Cicely with an apologetic expression. "Mrs Glenthorne has yet to meet your acquaintance, Mrs Maturin…" with one gloved hand Sophie Aubrey gestured towards the open screen doors that led out into the house's front hall. "My apologies, Mrs Forrest," she added as Cicely smiled gratefully towards her.

"It was a pleasure to meet you," Cicely finished, holding out a hand of her own which Mrs Forrest shook politely.

Once out into the hall Sophie Aubrey took Cicely's hand between both of hers, looking at her concerned.

"I must apologise for Mrs Forrest," she began, her voice soft and steady. "She does not mean to pry however she is an old woman in need of company. Her son has long been a friend of Jack's…" she trailed off and frowned when she saw Cicely's expression.

"…what is wrong my dear?" Leading her towards the staircase she took Cicely by the elbow and Cicely felt a lurch of guilt in her chest at Sophie Aubrey's boundless generosity compared to her own less than grateful manner.

"Nothing, Mrs Aubrey – "

" – Sophie – " she chided gently.

" – Sophie," Cicely nodded, "however my manners have become altogether – " She broke off when she realised that Mrs Aubrey was looking about the candle-lit hallway anxiously.

"I had intended this evening to be a small and social event, but it appears that my original guests extended my invitation…ordinarily I would be delighted…" she looked back at Cicely and touched her shoulder soothingly, "but it has turned out to be far larger and grander than I imagined…"

"No no," insisted Cicely earnestly, her eyes pricking with emotion, "it is the evening I fear, Mrs Aubrey…" And there was a long pause. Finally Sophie Aubrey spoke, her voice rapid and soft.

"I apologise my dear, I put this on for your benefit and I presumed your demeanour to be akin to my own. It is somewhat short sighted of me to assume that you would enjoy…were I to be such misfortunate as yourself…of course…" She looked away momentarily before meeting Cicely's eyes. "If you wish to make your leave, feel free to do so, Cicely…" But Cicely shook her head, feeling the pearls that adorned her head tap against it.

"No, Mrs…Sophie. I should not have mentioned it and caused you undue distress..." Cicely broke off as the fuzzy feeling that had begun at the back of her head earlier that day made another appearance and the sickness that had accompanied it was beginning to build in her throat…

"You look unwell," declared Sophie Aubrey kindly. "Do you wish me to summon my physician…after your child…" Cicely rested her hand on Sophie's reassuringly as a surge of involuntary defiance surged through her and she shook her head again.

"Thank you, Mrs Aubrey for all you have done," she concluded, returning the reassuring touch on the arm as the thought of the letter she had planned to write to her husband refilled her jorum of hope which the social event had drained.

"We do not need to see anyone again," said Sophie Aubrey decisively. "What can I do to help you bear this easier…tell me my dear, what can I do for you?"

"I need a task, Mrs Aubrey. Stephen – Dr. Maturin, he seeks a commission from the Royal Society. I beg you to allow me time alone to assist him…access to books and literature…" Sophie Aubrey smiled before stepping past Cicely and disappearing for a moment. On her return she was holding a wax-sealed letter which had caused bright excitement to shimmer in the candlelight.

"I am to visit friends of the family next month in Shropshire. Should you wish, I am sure they would not be averse to extend the invitation; heaven knows I could do with company and it might brighten your cheeks. They are a family learned in science and I am sure their library would be more than sufficient to suit your needs…"

…but Cicely Maturin was no longer listening to Sophie Aubrey now…her own mind was filled with light as she fought to grapple with the flood of opportune thoughts that were pouring in…

The thought of ploughing through books made Cicely begin to feel bright. At last…some use…a purpose…

Smiling heartily at Sophie Aubrey and shaking her hand heartily she told her surprised hostess that she would be more than happy to accompany her.

"…that would be wonderful…"

"In that case, I will make the arrangements. However, until our departure I will not allow you to shut yourself away, Cicely."

And, as Sophie Maturin led her back to her room, for the first time since leaving the "Surprise", she felt…hope…

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"You are not yourself of late, Stephen." Jack Aubrey had spent the best part of the day anticipating the time in each others' musical company and as his friend tuned the strings of his cello he saw the look of dejection fleet over the surgeon's features.

"I know you mourn your wife's loss. As do the men." Aubrey ignored the questioning on his friend's face as he too tuned his instrument before continuing the sharing of his opinions. "I have to admit, I was surprised at their reaction…the spirit of the ship seemed to have been lost with the child for a time." He noticed Stephen turn to look in his direction, taken aback at Jack's forthright opinion before returning to his cello.

"And I cannot deny that I am missing having her on board." He took in the doctor's glance as his friend half-closed his eyes, "not that her presence was ideal."

"Indeed," sighed Stephen as he took up the bow and looked along its length critically before breaking off suddenly from his examination he looked at Jack solemnly. "And I have word of intelligence that another associate of Bonaparte's spies has infiltrated the Navy at the highest level. As we are now in the Red Sea, I'm afraid I must depart your company for a time. Thank you." He took the rosin that Jack was proffering before smoothing it down the cat-gut fibres.

"You are in fact to join Nelson's fleet, am I correct?" This had been word sent to him prior to his commission in the South Atlantic and he knew that sooner or later his surgeon and best friend would be taken from him. Sooner then, rather than later, it would seem.

"I miss her, Jack. Even though she has been with me only a short time…" A wistful look permeated in his friend's eyes and he knew something had shifted in Stephen, something that hadn't been there before Cicely Hollum…

"In three months I will be through the Spanish steps; the Acheron is to be there – " He handed the rosin back to Jack as he looked knowingly at his friend.

"Tom…" mused Jack Aubrey thoughtfully. His first lieutenant. "I heard of Captain Pullings' great victory over the French at Calais. Prevented le Imperor from invading Britain, I fancy."

"Tail between his legs, God willing," nodded Stephen in agreement, sitting astride and leaning the body of the large stringed instrument against his own.

"And it is in the Lord's capacity that I am now to be relieved of my musical equal. I am to receive a surgeon in your wake by the name of Hardy, of late from the "Victory." He glanced in mock-aggrievance at his friend as he shouldered the violin.

"…yes…" mused Stephen, clutching his bow. "A good banjo player, so I'm told."

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The coach left Litten Hall on a dull rainy summer afternoon, complete with the wives of the aforementioned ship's musical duo. It clattered over the cobblestones, down the long driveway before the coachman bade the horses on the long road north.

It was several hours, and a much darker scene when the front door of Litten Hall was heavily rapped upon by an officious-looking figure who was met by the Hall's manservant. The figure tried not to lose patience as he again raised his staff to raise attention and it was only on the third attempt when the manservant of the house in question peeled the door back slowly from its latch.

"My mistress and her companion have gone to Shropshire," said the manservant when the figure had stated his intent and was met with an abrupt refusal to disclose more details when pressed for an address.

"Why ever not, man?" asked the figure, annoyed.

"Because I don't rightly know, sir. But…now I come to think of it…" the manservant broke off, scratching his whitening hair as he thought, "…my mistress's friend goes by the name of Susannah Wedgwood. They left not half a day ago." The figure nodded stiffly before turning on his heel. The manservant called after him.

"Can I say who's calling…?" he shouted as the smartly-dressed middle-aged gentleman strode away and the manservant watched in silence as he watched him mount his horse before closing the door quickly.

As the upper-class man whipped the reigns of the tack against his horse's neck it harrumphed in the night and Magistrate Wigg left the Aubrey household, and bade the beast north.


	3. Young at Heart

DISCLAIMER: ALL OF THE CHARACTERS AND SCENARIOS BELONG TO PATRICK O'BRIAN AND/OR MIRAMAX

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A week had passed since Cicely had left Litten Hall, the Aubrey family home and had taken to the road before arriving with her hostess in Shropshire. Throughout the journey North Cicely had begun to feel less concerned about her place in unfamiliar surroundings and the discomfort and bewilderment had been replaced with an increasing sensation of…

…she wasn't sure exactly what it was. Hope, perhaps. Or even mild happiness. It was as if she were being held up at the shoulders and walking tall as she used to, like a certain burden had been eased allowing for clarity of thought and an acceptance that her lot in life was now improving for the good. It was further enhanced as they crossed the Severn at Shrewsbury; heading off a mile North West to a grand house which turned out to be the home of Sophie Aubrey's friend, Miss Susannah Wedgwood.

It turned out that Miss Susannah Wedgwood was actually Mrs Susannah Darwin; as they drew up to the front of "The Mount", the modern house which they had been spying every so often through the Aubrey's coach windows Sophie explained that her friend's husband was a very successful doctor who could not only afford to keep her in a manner in which she had become accustomed but provide her with the most modern of furnishings and an active social calendar.

Cicely put in her best effort not to judge her soon-to-be hosts on the basis of that information and as she took in the size of the Darwin family home which was twice that of Litten Hall she reminded herself that it was she who was unusual, not Sophie Aubrey, for talk of wealth and status was the oil which turned the cogs of female society.

And, as the coach had drawn to a standstill Cicely could do nothing but smile wryly at the turn of events for it was not the manservant of the house who hurried from the front doors to greet them but Mrs Darwin herself, flushed a little in her cheeks as she embraced her friend heartily before extending her warm welcome to Cicely too.

She followed behind Mrs Aubrey and Mrs Darwin who, Cicely couldn't help noticing were like two peas in a pod, alike both in looks and also in demeanour: warm and kind, but unassuming and down-to-earth and as the two women talked at speed as they walked through the large entrance hall of "The Mount" Cicely trailed a little behind them, taking in its vast ornamentation and lavish modernity all of which, Cicely noticed, continued in every room of the house.

The style was undoubtedly Neoclassical and throughout their home each one appeared to be a tribute to a variety of European cultures, as if the Grand Tour could be undertaken in less than an hour. Sculptures of Roman gods and nymphs holding pillars graced the sitting room, the white plaster coving, Mrs Darwin explained as she eagerly showed them both the following day, a gift from her father, a successful potter from the five towns north of Stafford. She described how her husband's father had gifted them the gilded furniture that stood elegantly by the Adam fireplace which had been applied using a novel process designed by a friend of Dr. Darwin senior.

In the dining room china stood magnificently in more cabinets at one end, clearly another gift from her family in exotic mahogany cases identical to those in the library room matching the long oval dining table and silk-backed chairs, all of which had been purchased using Dr. Darwin's commission money in his first year of practise.

A delicate plastered ceiling in off-white stretched the entire length of the first floor. At the top of the stairs was a succession of finely furnished bedrooms where drapes and bedding of different styles, colours and fabrics adorned a variety of bed frames made, Susannah Darwin explained, by new industrial processes into which she and Robert, himself a doctor like his father, had agreed to invest money, sprung from steam automation, the latest innovation from Ironbridge and a boon for local commerce.

As she toured their family home Cicely was struck by the vast differences to the lives of ladies living in the south. The provincial environment of the Darwins was such that their lives revolved not about aristocracy and class grandeur, which cascaded outwards from the centre of the capital like ripples in a pond, but around local commerce, family business and trading opportunities…

…and so, despite her automatic response of mild abhorrence to such outward material trappings that crystallised and reflected wealth and status over the week to come Cicely found herself warming to the eclectic and free-thinking tastes of her hosts who were themselves the epitome of gentility. Cicely was not only made to feel welcome but, when she explained the task that she was to undertake on behalf of her husband over dinner on her first evening at the Mount she was bluntly informed by Robert Darwin that he would be ashamed to the point of mortification if his library, which spanned almost half of the first floor, was not be fit for her purpose for, he explained it contained not only the most up-to-date work but also a immense variety.

Dinner was a grand affair, at least by Susannah Darwin's standards. Mrs Aubrey, who had insisted on packing the dress that Cicely had worn to her own entertainment, had mentioned to Cicely as they were travelling that Mrs Darwin would, should there be such an evening planned, be flitting around, fussing over the tableware with the housekeeper and up and down to the kitchen speaking to the staff. Her hostess did not disappoint and, though it was not as stately as Sophie Aubrey's soiree Cicely could see this was the best the Darwins offered and as such, she didn't mind playing the part again of honoured guest.

She was glad Robert Darwin had mentioned the library to her: she had boldly wandered off on her own that afternoon and found her own way there. Once she had seen its rich offerings, filled with everything new from the Royal Society she knew that her work for Stephen would be helped immensely were she to read what the library contained, including on the mahogany desk in the centre a basalt-finish letter writing set with its ink stand and sand for blotting out for use, she had to agree, silently however, with Robert Darwin that his library was the best she had seen in a very long time.

"I would very much like to spend some time there," Cicely replied as she nodded at the host and hostess as the second course of wild hare and pheasant was being served to the small company of adults. The Darwins' four children who Cicely had met briefly that afternoon had long since eaten and were now in the rooms and nursery on the second floor, abedded by Susannah Darwin herself, something which had Cicely in admiration of the woman in light of her obvious excitability regarding her own hospitality that evening. "And I am sure your books are indeed fit for purpose." She leaned towards Mr. Darwin a little and smiled. "Tell me sir, do your books contain anything that would help me to explain the diversity of species that my husband described on his visit to the Galapagos Islands?"

"Robert, darling, would you be so kind as to pass Mrs Aubrey the wine?" Mrs Darwin's words were nothing if not polite but there was a certain exasperated edge to them which made Cicely realise that she had overstepped the bounds: women of her standing were supposed to speak of fashions and arts or, in such provincial company as the Darwins, local manufacture and commerce.

Cicely looked around the dining room which was as beautiful as the rest of the house and, as the rest, adorned with grand objects of sentiment. Cicely had been told of the origin of most of the pieces by Mrs Darwin as she and Sophie were shown in from the drawing room for dinner. The dining table had been made for them by a woodcrafter near Derby, where Mr Darwin's father, Erasmus Darwin, had moved to continue his practise. It had been their wedding present from the doctor, whose portrait hung over the fireplace in the dining room and whose absence from their lives for the past three years had been much a sorrow to them.

"I, I do apologise, Mrs Darwin," replied Cicely softly to her hosts, an element of guilt settling in her stomach, "it was an unfit subject for your such fine dinner table." She jumped as Robert Darwin thumped the table and she turned sharply, memories of her father in a temper flooding back.

"Ha! Not at all!" Robert Darwin thumped on the table again making the cutlery move and grinning mirthfully. "Did you say your husband is in the Royal Society? Perhaps I know him…I think it would be about time that father's book is brought out again." Cicely turned and smiled a little towards the other guests at the table but Dr. Darwin was not finished with the topic of his library. "And upon the desk something from my much esteemed father-in-law," he continued, raising a glass to the guests. Cicely reached towards a thin-stemmed crystal glass, something made as a gift from a local craftsman she had learned earlier that evening.

"Josiah Wedgwood," replied the man sitting opposite Robert Darwin at the other end of the table.

"Indeed, Samuel, indeed," acknowledged Robert, nodding towards Samuel Jinks, himself a doctor who practised medicine in Shrewsbury with Dr. Darwin. He and his wife were regular guests to the Mount and the odd mix of company was something to which Cicely was unaccustomed. She had been welcomed and there was no doubt her hosts had made her feel at ease but it was the regularity of the meal which caused her to falter: even as a guest with Mrs Aubrey she was, despite being married, to all intents and purposes as single woman and that feeling of space that Cicely had encountered at Litten Hall was almost entirely juxtaposed to the busy, packed bundle of life that she felt here at the home of Dr. and Mrs Darwin.

"Josiah Wedgwood," repeated the guests and raising their glasses of reasonable-quality red wine in tribute.

"Without whom I would not have my beautiful Susannah," continued Robert, leaning back a little in his chair and taking his wife's hand in his own. Susannah Darwin smiled and nodded obligingly at her husband. Clearly the sentiment of rigid formality was there, as was required in a modern early nineteenth-century household but as Susannah and Robert glanced across to one another Cicely could see that their love for one another was not just dynastic even if it may have started out that way, something too which Sophie Aubrey was keen to express on their way.

"And the writing set, of course. Experimental, Mrs Maturin. Josiah Wedgwood never put them into production…not cost-effective. But I am honoured to have his test piece, something I use on every occasion."

"My father does have a thing for experimentation," commented Susannah as the dinner service was rapidly removed to be replaced with the tea service, something which Cicely recognised immediately to have knew to have originated from Mrs Darwin's father's factory. "Although this would be one of his better ones."

"The Queen range," elaborated Mrs Jinks, nodding towards her cup and smiling. "One of the more popular choices from the Wedgwood factory, Mrs Darwin." The woman's words were more a statement rather than a question but Susannah Darwin nodded in any case, adding a couple of sugar lumps to her cup with a beautiful pair of silver sugar tongs and stirring the drink with a matching spoon.

"The Prices will soon be a name to be reckoned with, so says Erasmus," nodded Dr. Darwin, stirring his tea with a spoon of his own. "My elder brother, Mrs Maturin. He took on father's clientele when he moved to Derbyshire. Stayed in Lichfield: a brave move some would say. But there are people there and people of wealth, so there are plenty of rich, ill people for him to treat."

"Just like Shrewsbury," laughed Dr. Jinks, his laughter unlike that of Robert Darwin, light and tinkly compared to their host's deep, textured expression of mirth. "A good many. Do you know I had a gentleman in my surgery the other day who had been brought there by his servants? Over work, they claimed. He claimed he was going to extend the Watling Street, to make it passably smooth by horse and carriage, all the way to Anglesey."

"No!" boomed Robert Darwin. "Surely not! Someone with some sense at last!" He put down the cup heavily onto the saucer. Cicely caught the expression on Susannah Darwin's face but it was nothing to the one that she had reserved for Cicely as she clanked the silver spoon against her own cup. Cicely looked apologetically once more at her hostess, hoping for forgiveness for yet another social faux pas. She noticed Sophie glance towards Susannah too and Cicely wondered whether Jack Aubrey's wife was not now starting to regret her decision in bringing her.

"Indeed so," nodded Mrs Jinks, a woman, Cicely had learned, who was quite well-travelled and had been a distinguished writer of geographica in her own right. "Our country's road system is, at present, not more than a collection of muddy tracks." She leaned forward and addressed the adults at the table assertively, "Were a new collection of toll roads to be introduced and the money collected from travellers went towards improving the roads however, we would have a network of which to be proud."

"How elegant and sophisticated," mused Robert Darwin. "Order over chaos…" He shook his head and Cicely recognised a look of nostalgic pride cross the man's face. It was something she had grown accustomed to as Stephen was unravelling the mysteries of nature in his cabin aboard the surprise. Nostalgic pride.

"Indeed so, Robert," nodded Dr. Jinks. "What discoveries have been made just this past score of years? Whoever would have thought what wonders our industrial age would bring? Do you know, a man in Kernow, in the South, has come up with a pressurised steam device which moves under its own power, on rails?"

Cicely sighed inwardly as the glory of technological marvels was played out between the two men. Their world was steeped in connections which gave them an altogether different outlook on life. Around the Darwins, and the other influential families too, their lives revolved around craft and people got ahead not by their place in society but by adapting to manufacturing demands and then selling their goods. They prided themselves that they could turn their hands to anything and, Cicely could see, they were accepting to the point of ignorance of social differences: Susannah Wedgwood was almost aristocracy in terms of her status in society whereas Sophie Aubrey was at best middle class. Dr. Darwin was much more learned and esteemed than Dr. Jinks but they worked together and shared a practice. Where this would have mattered a great deal to the people attending Mrs Aubrey's function it mattered nothing at this dinner table. Other things mattered here though, and one of these was the rigorous adherence to manners.

Cicely's thoughts were rapidly drawn to a halt when she realised that five people were staring at her.

"I'm sorry, I was lost in my own thoughts…" She glanced around, realising that someone had been talking to her and she spoke into the expectant pause and hoped that this would be the last time she would have to look apologetic.

"I said that we are to understand that you were on board a ship, Mrs Maturin." Mrs Jinks smiled at Cicely and spoke patiently to her. Cicely nodded, hoping that no-one would press her too much.

"How fascinating," Dr. Jinks continued, nodding towards his wife. "I've never seen the sea."

"Yes my dear, you have." Mrs Jinks corrected. "We have travelled by that awful road that is to be extended and improved. We visited Anglesey, and watched the ferries sail across the Irish Sea."

"Ah yes. And crossed over another of our country's greatest achievements. Did you know, Mrs Maturin, it is 1000 feet above the Menai Straits and allows a man to get from London to Dublin in less than eighteen hours?" Cicely shook her head. She did not know that fact but it was indeed a marvellous one.

"My husband had a firm interest in the technological developments of our country," concluded Mrs Jinks, smiling at Susannah Darwin.

"As is mine. I wonder how you have the time to attend your growing list of clients." Susannah leaned across and patted Robert on the hand.

"We manage. And a better road network will bring much prosperity to the country. And more sick people for us to treat, Samuel." Dr. Jinks nodded mirthfully.

"So, where did you meet your husband?" enquired Mrs Jinks, returning to the original subject as one of the maids poured her a second cup of tea. "

"Aboard ship," Cicely replied, smiling a little as she recalled the Surprise. "My husband is the surgeon upon Mrs Aubrey's husband's ship."

"You were aboard a warship?" asked Mrs Jinks shrilly. Cicely smiled and put down her delicate china teacup carefully onto the saucer.

"I was indeed. It is a place like no other. No man more free, no man more loyal, no man more honest…"

"But…how did you end up on…a man-o'-war? That is what Captain Aubrey's ship is, Mrs Aubrey?" Cicely watched as Susannah glanced across to her friend and noted the look of uncertainty creep across Mrs Aubrey's face before nodding slowly.

"His main interest in naturalism," replied Cicely, hoping this would do as an answer and that no-one would press her further. "Though I was privileged to witness some remarkable developments in medicine. We visited the Galapagos Islands and my husband developed some ideas about the creatures thereupon." She glanced at Dr. Darwin and smiled. "Your father's book was one of his most treasured possessions but I'm afraid to say it was washed overboard in a particularly unsavoury storm off the coast of Egypt." That was enough, Cicely reasoned. She had brought the conversation round to the host of the evening.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Maturin, but I still don't understand. How was it that you were a person aboard a fighting ship?" Mrs Darwin was clearly not satisfied with the explanation and Cicely inhaled as the last two years of her life scrolled very quickly across the back of her mind as she wondered what to say next. Before she was compelled to answer however Dr. Darwin broke the silence.

"A naturalist of discernment. Well, I do compel you Mrs Maturin to use whatever means I have at my disposal for you to help uncover meaning behind your husband's discoveries."

"Thank you sir. He hopes to win a commission with the Royal Society on his work with how species differ in different parts of the world and how they have come to be different."

"He sounds to be a fine man," Mrs Jinks said warmly. Cicely smiled and tried not to recall Stephen's face. The last time she did that it had been only his work which she had had in front of her at the time which had prevented her from leaving Litten Hall.

"Indeed he is."

"Then I have the very thing," smiled Robert Darwin. "My father, the great Erasmus Darwin, he had fancies and notions about how the world around us is made up too."

"Zoonomia," Cicely nodded.

"You are familiar with it yourself?" The look of delight on the man's face at the recognition of something that was obviously important to him.

"The book that Stephen lost was a particularly well thumbed copy of the latest edition. I was sorry to see it go too. It was fascinating."

"Then perhaps you would like the original? It was produced for the family and contains a great deal more detail than the publishers were happy with – " he took a swig of his tea before leaning towards Cicely mock-conspiratorially, " – and between you and me much of it was too controversial to be made public."

"I would be most happy to see it in fact, I am sure it is a great honour," replied Cicely gratefully.

"So, was your ship involved with any conflict whilst you were aboard, Mrs Maturin?" asked Dr. Jinks. "The latest news is that he is headed towards Mantua."

"A lot of good that will do him," scoffed Dr. Darwin, leaning back in his chair. "Nelson will be on his tail, or that of Villeneuve, whichever's the filthier."

"That's if he decides to use his fleet again." Dr. Jinks shook his head as one of the servants made to pour tea into his cup. "They have promoted an Irishman…Wellsley…whether he'll be any good…"

"He's supposed to be good…and the fact that Nelson's thrashed him once…good for morale…"

Both men glanced at Cicely as if expecting her to join in. Cicely said nothing and picked up her teacup again: feigning ignorance was much better than enduring Mrs Darwin's displeasure at a female guest speaking on male-related matters.

"Once is not enough," continued Dr. Jinks. "Oh, the Nile may be a great victrctory…"

"Or indeed a great Victory," punned Robert Darwin. "Kept the metalworkers in Sutton busy for months…whoever would have thought the Cymru…from Swansea of all places, would have the answer. But they did…it'll be the copper that'll win us," Dr. Darwin concluded knowledgeably. "Smoother in the water, stops barnacles and weeds growing." He glanced at Cicely again and this time she felt a blush creep onto her face. She wished she could participate in the discussion: of course the copper on the underside of the boat was a good idea, Captain Aubrey had a thin sheet of iron on the Surprise which had to be treated every two weeks to stop it from corroding but copper, well: it didn't corrode. An ingenius solution.

"…ingenious…" she heard Dr. Jinks echo as the conversation continued around her.

"Old father would have loved that," added Dr. Darwin.

"I hear that Wellsley's taking the long way round, around the Pyrenees…a fair old tactic if you ask me," continued Dr. Jinks, "keeping the army away and splitting up Boney's defence. That means, to give them a run around…"

"…Nelson'll be sailing from Cadiz to the Pacific…"

Cicely didn't realise she had said that aloud until Mrs Darwin began to laugh. Her laugh was light and airy but appeared to be expressed in surprise rather than condemnation of Cicely's perceived error of speech.

"You seem to have picked up a fair amount of naval stratagem in your time at sea," she commented, smiling at her friend. Mrs Aubrey, nodded too and smiled at Cicely. "It is no wonder your husband thought you fit to assist him."

"A commission will set him up well," added Dr. Darwin, getting to his feet. He and Dr. Jinks began to walk towards the dining room door, no doubt to continue their discussion about military tactics, or perhaps about manufacturing in the drawing room. Cicely knew that she and Sophie Aubrey would be invited into the parlour to discuss subjects of a different nature.

"Well," continued Dr. Jinks. "Let us see if I cannot assist you too. I have a good friend, Mr George Richards, he has recently become brother-in-law to a Northumbrian commissionaire by the name of Stephenson. You could do worse than to pass this onto your husband." Dr. Jinks nodded lightly and Cicely nodded too, despite her doubt as to whether the connection would be anything other than manufacturing-linked, however honestly it was conveyed.

"Yes sir, I will."

"Then perhaps, Mrs Maturin," finished Dr. Darwin, "you would like to see the library now?"

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Instead of accompanying Susannah Darwin and Sophie Aubrey to the sitting room to carry out stitching, reading and playing, Robert Darwin was keen to show Cicely his handsome bibliographic collection including the obvious pride of it, which was his father's "Zoonomia", written ten years before. Cicely was rather relieved at his offer, not least because she would be able to allow the women a chance to relay personal information between each other but also because of the tedium of the aforementioned activities. Dr. Jinks accompanied them, he too keen to examine the book based upon his friend's glowing report of the tome.

The large book lay open in a lectern in a glass cabinet, the centrepiece of the Darwin family's library. Robert Darwin explained to both Cicely and Dr. Jinks, as he lovingly removed it from the cabinet, that each double page had an illustration for every day of the year that informed the reader of something interesting about the natural world, and that they were dated…here was today, he pointed towards the date, August 16th, showing a beautiful hand drawn and water-coloured illustration of a sweet chestnut emerging boldly from its green prickly jacket.

"How beautiful," whispered Cicely as she looked over the lavishly decorated page. The letters appeared printed but she could see from the indentations that they must have been written by Dr. Erasmus Darwin himself.

"Well, let me lift it out," said Robert, leaning over the cabined and placing his hands underneath the sturdy leather cover. Both Cicely and Dr. Jinks watched as he placed it onto the large mahogany desk next to the Wedgwood writing set.

"Here." Dr. Darwin took Cicely by the shoulder and turned her towards the shelves of books that lined every wall. "All of these are at your disposal. I shall be glad that they will be put to some use." He stepped back as Cicely moved around the bookshelves, looking at the volumes in awe. Some of the titles here Stephen would have loved to have read himself, she knew and she made a mental note to write to Robert Darwin when she and Stephen were in a position to be together and ask of a visit.

"Your collection is so vast, on such a wide range of topics." Cicely glanced about at the leather-bound books packed from top to bottom on the shelves and smiled at Robert Darwin nodded in agreement.

"I am happy to say I am the custodian of such a bibliographic marvel…none of us own anything, Mrs Maturin," he added as Cicely frowned a little at his words, "we are merely their keepers until they become wards of someone else." Cicely felt herself silently agreeing with Robert Darwin. It was the way she felt about the world at large, like a great big stage with no boundaries or constraints. Or rather, that was what she had felt like. The truth was she felt more confined these days.

"If you would be so kind as to let me work here I will be no bother with you or your family…I feel I could get quite a long way in quite a short amount of time…" Cicely felt her spirits rise as she looked across to her generous host.

"Dr. Jinks and I will be in the drawing room, and my wife and Mrs Aubrey in the parlour." Cicely smiled again towards the doctor before turning her quiet contemplation to the natural world in the titles of the books before finally returning her eye to "Zoonomia".

And for the next hour Cicely felt she had done more good than she had done in the intervening hours between her leaving Stephen and arriving at "The Mount". Her first task was to identify which books contained useful sources of information but, much as a part of her was compelling her to continue she decided that she would be very rude if she were to ignore the women all evening.

While the conversation revolved around fashion and society Cicely nodded and discoursed with the women like a professional socialite and her relationship with her hostess grew. But at the back of her mind was the burning temptation of information burning as hotly as her desire to be aboard the Surprise and be with her brother.

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Following dinner the next evening, when Susannah Darwin's demeanour towards her appeared to have softened, the hostess took Cicely to see her newborn son. They had a nanny who tended the older children but she had rejected Dr. Darwin's offer of a nurse, unusual for a middle class wife, choosing instead to wean the child, as her other children, herself. Cicely had spent most of the day in the library and had made progress in many areas and detailing as much as she could in the margins of her copies of Stephen's notes. The day had passed quickly and the evening meal was soon upon them: although not as grand as the evening before it had to be said that Mrs Darwin's attention to detail was without question high indeed.

Dr. Darwin had chosen to retire to the drawing room soon after dinner to read over some case notes and so she, Mrs Darwin and Mrs Aubrey made their way upstairs. Despite Sophie Aubrey's initial reservations at Cicely's need to accompany them Cicely had waved away her hostess's concerns and Susannah talked about her children fondly, about her eldest daughter eager to become a doctor like her father, despite her gender to which Cicely, as Robert Young, silently approved, and her next youngest son who had an eager interest in nature as they ascended the majestic staircase.

"Just like his father," commented Mrs Darwin. "And his father before him. Perhaps we'll even have a naturalist in the family, although I am sure Robert would never approve."

The nursery was decorated to a crisp standard, as the rest of the house. The crib stood near the door with ample room all around as was the custom: middle class babies were brought up in their nurseries until they were able to walk, were bathed and fed therein. At six months old it was some time yet before young Charles joined his siblings in the family room.

"Here he is," chirruped Mrs Darwin, her face softening into a tender smile towards her baby, who looked up towards his mother and grinned toothlessly at the sound of her voice. Mrs Aubrey followed her friend and she too fussed over the infant but Cicely remained at the doorway watching the women carefully as the painful feelings that she knew would come played out in the theatre of her mind…

…Edward…her Edward…the child named after his Uncle…

As she gazed on into the nursery all at once the stifling domesticity and correlating constraints seemed to press her ever tighter into her bodice. The effect was as if she were suffocating and images of the sea surrounded her as the longing for hot sun and hard days tormented her cruelly…

…toiling with passion at the ropes in filthy conditions…sitting with the men eating maggot-ridden food…singing about Spanish ladies and the good life that was to be had at each port…

But above all that there was her husband…her Stephen –

"Are you all right?" Cicely's thoughts were abruptly broken and she saw Susannah Darwin's face full of concern as she held her son in her arms.

"Mrs Darwin, I'm afraid I'm not feeling myself…" Susannah Darwin continued to look perturbed as Sophie Aubrey crossed the nursery floor bathing her in a look of equal concern and reaching for her hand.

"Mrs Aubrey took the liberty of disclosing an intimate but, may I say, sorrowful event to me." Cicely shot a look at Sophie Aubrey whose look of concern was cut with potential regret. Cicely hadn't the strength to be offended by Mrs Aubrey: indeed, it would be unusual for the two women not to have discussed it, she supposed. Having neither cared for nor participated in society Cicely had little measure of its content or propriety.

"My child died, Mrs Darwin," she said simply. "I am…sorrowful for that." And then, surprising even herself she dropped Sophie Aubrey's hand and held it out towards baby Charles.

"He has bright cheeks," she continued. "He looks like you."

"He looks like his father when he is asleep," replied Susannah Darwin. "And he is very bright, very inquisitive."

Soon after and Sophie and Susannah were fussing over the child and Cicely made her leave, declaring that she was returning to the library to continue where she had left off that previous afternoon. It was almost nine in the evening now and dusk was setting in; through the round landing windows beams of sunlight sheared through the evening clouds, resting upon the crimson carpet where she was treading.

Despite her eagerness to return to what Robert Darwin had described as, "not one of the finest collections in England but one that suited him," a description which was far off the mark for such a substantial library as his, she lingered a few steps down the staircase listening to Mrs Darwin talking to her son and waited for the bolt of sadness to overwhelm her again.

This time it didn't come, not in the manner in which it usually did, and Cicely held onto the banister wondering why. Her emotions seemed to have changed and within her, within the last few minutes: as well as feeling the same sadness that she had borne since she saw Jack Aubrey holding her stillborn son now she felt more at ease with the idea of a child. Being in the nursery she felt she could have held Mrs Darwin's youngest son as Sophie Aubrey had done, something which she would never have contemplated before.

It was…a feeling of calmness. There would be others, this Cicely knew…other children that she and Stephen would bring safely into the world. Together.

Continuing down the stairs Cicely looked towards the door on the first floor in which she had left her things in which she was studying. She sat at the table again and read over the manuscript to which she had added a few extra notes underneath her husband's own curly handwriting. And there she would have stayed no doubt until early into the morning had she not been disturbed by a loud rapping on the front door directly below her. Coming so late at night at nearly eleven Cicely stepped out onto the becarpeted landing.

"No, I do not know." From her position on the first floor Cicely could hear the Darwins' butler talking to the person at the door. It clicked shut momentarily and she heard the butler make his way towards the drawing room where she knew Dr. Darwin would be located, probably savouring his third brandy right now. Cicely crept further forward towards the stairs which swept out grandly from either side of the landing, just as those in Litten Hall had done, something which gave her a good view of the front door.

Who would be calling at such a late hour? Cicely thought to herself and she was surprised when these words were echoed aloud by the master of the house making his way steadily across the black and white chequered entrance hall.

"He says he is a Justice of the Peace…"

"Old Smeaton?" Cicely heard Dr. Darwin question.

"No, this man isn't local. He asked me for my master's assistance…he was most insistent…"

Cicely crept down a few more stairs. From her vantage point she could see Robert Darwin's back taking up the majority of space in the doorway; the Darwins' butler hovering beside him like a bee waiting beside a flower. She leaned further forward so that she could catch what the caller was talking about but the voice was too indistinct.

"Yes, Susannah Wedgwood is my wife," confirmed Dr. Darwin authoritatively. "May I enquire who is seeking her?"

Behind her laced bodice Cicely could feel her heart pounding. Why would a JP be calling at such a late hour to the Darwins' home? Someone who Dr. Darwin did not know? She crept further down holding onto the railing and now she could see a pair of boots standing in the doorway. But still she could nothing other than one side of the conversation, that which Dr. Robert Darwin was holding.

"If you could make yourself plainer sir," Dr. Darwin declared, "then we may at such late an hour be able to assist you."

"….mm..mm…..mm..mm..mm..mm…..mm..mm..mm…"

"Yes," confirmed Robert Darwin, still holding firmly onto the latch of one half of the front door. "My wife did have a lady visitor a few days ago by the name of Sophie Aubrey – "

Cicely ran. Her mind had already put the puzzle together at top speed and she ran upstairs towards the library. There was little time for her to do much but clear thinking now she knew would be something for which she would be grateful later on. Wigg. Somehow he'd found her.

Looking round the room she discarded what she knew she could do without into the fireplace not waiting to watch the orange flames consume her hard 2 days' work. With her she took Stephen Maturin's own work and headed towards the steps which took her down towards the servant's quarters and out towards the buildings at the back, towards the stables. Circling round in the cool spring air Cicely headed towards the apple orchard, ducking low behind a stump and catching her dress on the bramble beside her.

Cicely crept forward, heading around to the side of "The Mount" and tearing some more of Mrs Aubrey's beautiful dress on the foliage. The light from over the house's front doorway cast shadows onto the drive and from here Cicely could see, to her despair, a carriage and upon it the purchased crest of the Wigg escutcheon.

"You say Mrs Maturin's father promised her in marriage to you?" To his credit Cicely noted, Robert Darwin was insisting on the full facts from Wigg, thus stalling him. The bulk that was Benjamin Wigg standing on the doorstep being interrogated by a provincial physician would annoying him greatly, Cicely knew.

"…Mrs Maturin does not exist. It's probably a name she has invented for herself!" Magistrate Wigg's voice was turning decidedly raspy. "Miss Cicely Hollum is betrothed to me! She is her father's property. If she is in your house, sir, I compel you to turn her over to me!"

Cicely turned and sprinted around the outside of the building, leaning against the back wall of "The Mount" as she stared into the blackness that was the Shropshire countryside to the east. There was nothing for it. Darwin would only stall so much and Wigg would no doubt produce a warrant.

What was she to do? She knew Benjamin Wigg and he wouldn't give up until he had what he wanted, what her father had promised him. She had to get away…go…leave the safety of the Darwins' home and Sophie Aubrey's charitable sanctuary. She had to think fast.

To her right was the door through which she had come through which led up to the first floor. To her right the stable outbuildings with the half-dozen or so horses and ponies belonging to the Darwins'. It would take too long to saddle one and it had been many years since she had ridden.

A light appeared in a window which illuminated one part of the kitchen. Distracted Cicely looked in and noticed a maid scurrying about, pausing momentarily to take a jar from the wall and open it, before scurrying away and dousing the oil. And then Cicely remembered what she had seen Susannah Darwin putting in a jar just like that one the day before.

Asking for forgiveness from God, Cicely crept into the kitchen. The shelves were high over the pantry wall and she had to move a chair to reach them.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Darwin," she whispered as her hand settled over a bag of coins, "I'm sorry to bring shame to you."

Holding onto the coins and Stephen's work Cicely slipped the door closed onto the latch and looked at the darkness in the east. That way, she knew, would bring her towards a city in two days' walking. But it would be no good trying to get anywhere in her current attire.

And then she looked towards the stables again. It had worked before…and she had seen both stable hands in uniform that day.

Running into the stable Cicely soon located the clothing, folded neatly over a railing closest to Spirit, the Darwins eldest daughter's pony. Ignoring the pungent smell of manure Cicely tore guiltily at her dress until she was standing in nothing more than corset and bloomers. Now…or very soon she would be caught, Cicely reminded herself and she kicked off her shoes replacing them with the crudely-made stable shoes used by the workers to muck-out.

It worked once, thought Cicely as she noticed a cloak in a hook by the door and chided herself for wasting time by thinking…she needed to be _doing_. And fast.

Within minutes her underwear was discarded too being replaced by a shirt, jerkin and britches and she reaching for the cloak wrapping it closely round her before reaching up to the horse-hair shears which hung from a nail near the doorway. Her own mousy-blonde hair had grown back since she had made her transition to Mrs Cicely Maturin but despite, or perhaps because of its feminine appearance she had no hesitation in lopping off most of it, throwing it into a pile with the rest of her clothes before stuffing them under an untied bale of hay.

Now away, she thought, looking east again, in the opposite direction to the town. And then she paused, stowing away her stolen money and letter from Stephen inside her jerkin, feeling the guilt of her behaviour towards Mrs Aubrey and the Darwins when they had welcomed her so warmly.

I'll write, thought Cicely, I'll tell Sophie. She deserves to know, but not now. Now she had to disappear.

Behind her voices filled the air. A light came on in the kitchen again and she could hear voices getting closer and closer. Quickly she made her way towards the gardens…she would go through the gate and into the open countryside.

And do what? What can I do? There will be no transport willing to take me to a city dressed as a stable hand even if I offered money. They would think it stolen anyway. Which it is, said a little voice in her head.

I'll pay it back, thought Cicely to herself and she darted towards the side of the house backing towards the front as Dr. Darwin and Magistrate Wigg stepped out into the courtyard.

"I tell you Darwin she is here somewhere!" fumed Benjamin Wigg. He paused in his rant as Dr. Darwin gave him a withering stare.

"It would help, Magistrate, if you were to give me a full explanation of this. You claim Mrs Maturin is a deluded Miss Hollum and you have come to claim her as your own? Forgive me when I say that this story would sound a little less fanciful were you not hammering on my door late at night and scaring my children!"

"Cicely Hollum boarded a ship nearly two years ago, one captained by the husband of Mrs Aubrey, the friend of your wife. She married the ship's doctor and now calls herself Mrs Maturin. The marriage is invalid, Mr. Darwin. I have come to claim her!"

"Dr. Darwin," corrected Robert. "Now, supposing all this is true, do you really think that, even with your piece of paper, I will allow you to continue to search my house?"

"You will," Cicely heard Benjamin Wigg sneer, "or I shall be down to Shrewsbury town and bringing King George's men with me!"

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Never in her life had Cicely Maturin felt so scared. Here she was in a foreign part of the country and by some terrible fortune her father's intended knew that not only was she not dead but also that she had spent time aboard the Surprise and married Stephen.

In the darkness lights twinkled but Cicely didn't care. It was the proximity of the lights behind her on the hill at the Mount she cared about at the moment. Stumbling over some brambles Cicely regained her balance and was relieved to find road beneath her feet.

How could he possibly know?

To her right the lights of the town of Shrewsbury shone in her side vision but she hurried on despite the tortuous rubbing of her shoes and the chill wind, despite it being July, which were finding every hole and gap in her ill-fitting clothing.

She would have to send word to Mrs Aubrey…that was her priority. That and a way south, to the continent. She would have to find Stephen herself now; she would have to cross the channel to France.

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A cut had provided Cicely with shelter until the early hours of the morning by which time she had made her way painfully into Shrewsbury. The walk had been long but she had chanced upon a clothier who had set up stall early in Shrewsbury's lower market area near English Bridge. Pulling the cloak over her face Cicely claimed she was a widow purchasing men's working clothes for her brother who was in search of business in the area.

The man was cheerful and served her promptly, seemingly grateful to have a few shillings in his pocket so early on in the day and went on to tell Cicely that the Union Canal company had been in town the day before hunting for labourers. It was all she needed to know. Thanking the man for the business Cicely walked over English Bridge and up the hill towards the countryside again.

It took her a good two hours before Cicely, now in the guise of a man, found the canal company. From the newspaper Robert Darwin had been reading the day before she knew that the company was moving south to renovate the stretch of waterway in the Black Country, close to Birmingham. It was the cover she needed, a few days to the city of a thousand trades before planning her move to the capital.

It had been a struggle to dress, Cicely had found, her body seemed to have taken on a more shapely appearance and she had had to bind the strips of stable hand clothing around her torso tighter than before, so much so, Cicely had thought, that she might as well have been wearing a corset. She hoped that the shirt would be large enough to disguise her hips.

At the bank of the Shropshire Union Canal young men, old men and boys stood in line. The line-up was unlike that which she had endured to gain a place aboard the Surprise. The company seemed in need of navvies and few questions were asked. The foreman in charge of this section inched forward smoking heavily on a pipe and leaning towards a younger man who hastily scribbled down things that he was saying. Occasionally the foreman would pause and puff smoke into the face of a potential recruit and as he neared Cicely she realised with some relief that everyone in front of her had been herded off towards the navigationals' camp.

She held her breath as the foreman, seemingly distracted by something unrelated to recruitment glanced over her and on to the next man. The young lad who was scribbling down information beside him leaned towards her.

"Name?"

"Robert Young."


	4. Letters of the Law

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A breeze played impishly at the foremast sail as the sheet hung lifeless from its rigging. The "Surprise", now in dock at Genova, redundant of her glorious function, floated purposelessly in the azure water. Dr. Stephen Maturin looked away from the hypnotic lap-lapping of the shallow waves which licked the hull and turned instead to where Captain Jack Aubrey was perusing the deck, inspecting his vessel and the activities upon.

His departure, Stephen knew, must be prompt in order to take the mail carriage which left Genova's postal office at six that evening. Its route, over the Alps to Switzerland and then on into Vesoul, was the most effective method of reaching France without attracting a great deal of attention from Bonaparte's militia. No-one questioned the postal service, commissioned as it was by the wealthy, and Maturin had secured a place aboard through his connections with Ligurian nobility.

Prompt, Stephen reflected, but not welcome. Once he disembarked "Surprise" the next part of his undertaking required a deal of skill and deftness and all thought of his beloved Cicely would have to be set aside. The now-burned letter he had received not a day into their docking at the port cryptically ascribed to this.

The future, reflected Stephen, was going to be even more unpredictable than the recent past. On a chance meeting with Aubrey in Milan all those years ago his friend, the Captain, had taken him to the very edge of the world, allowed him to see wonders beyond his imagination all within the limits of the Admiralty's orders and the context of battle. He could not have asked for more had he dared to dream so when he had agreed to medic for Jack Aubrey in exchange for access to the world's natural delights.

There had been times, of course, when his friend had driven him to distraction as these natural delights passed him by, having given way to manoeuvres in deep water, for example, or feeling at his wits' end when the simple seamen had clung to their religion to heal their injuries and illnesses when all that was needed was good, sound medicine.

And then, when he thought he had seen it all along came human spirit in the guise of Cicely Hollum in the disguise of Robert Young. A determined young woman who refused to let her gender be her ruler and who fought for what she believed, turning the world around her upside down, as the discovery of a woman hidden aboard a warship would, of course. Her presence had been handled with swift efficiency and her departure ever the bitterer.

"…get that mast-fitting high!" The carpenter, who had worked tirelessly on refitting a new mast to replace that which had been made to do, heaved the timber into position. The lower-ranking sailors who had climbed the rigging and now were perched like birds aloft pulled tightly on thick hoisting ropes. It was a tricky, heavy and dangerous task but one which was necessary for the ship to be in its prime.

Maturin blinked from his thoughts and turned, analysing the movement adecks. As well as his equipment and notebooks which Jack had promised him would be preserved, "in as whole a manner as practical on a warship", the Doctor would be leaving behind a family, of sorts. He had little of his own and, having met Jack Aubrey in Naples all those years ago had come to first a convenient arrangement, and then mutual respect. Opposite though their characters were camaraderie and companionship had forged their friendship. Goodbye was going to be difficult and fleeting thoughts of finality had caught the doctor off guard.

"You have rejuvenated her well." Stephen noticed that Jack Aubrey had observed he was above and he crossed the firm-timbered planks to his friend. There was no way to avoid him so Stephen knew he must speak to him.

"She looks as good as I remember her when you first introduced her to me. Sails high, sheets firm." Aubrey glanced at the doctor and thought he had caught a glimpse of rare emotion. The last time Stephen Maturin risked his feelings was when he would have lost Cicely Hollum in her alias as Robert Young to the crew of the Acheron under Pullings. What had caused this momentary display? He was used to his friend's fervent opinions stemming from reason and practicality.

"Indeed," Aubrey agreed, nodding and beaming at the frenetic work of his men. "I do believe that she will be fit to accompany the flagship. The First Sealord has sent his orders." Maturin looked at Jack, the Captain's face showing his satisfaction at the idea. He didn't believe that his friend could be happier off land than when he was co-ordinating a seagoing vessel in naval strategy. Similar could be said of himself with naturalism yet it was the espionage, which he would soon be engaged, that which financed his scientific enquiry and allowed him access to the world stage. Naturalism and, to his own utter amazement the captivating, beguiling Miss Hollum which had turned in the course of a few weeks eighteen months before to affection and love.

"You seem troubled, my friend." Aubrey had focused his full attention now on Stephen and the doctor shook his head as he realised he must have been staring out onto the horizon and into the distance.

"My disembarkation," qualified Maturin. "I have orders of my own. Things will become very difficult presently, and apt to complication. My only thoughts are of Cicely and how she fares."

Stephen had been sure that Jack had thought him a reckless simpleton when he had asked Aubrey to marry them in his capacity as Captain. But how could he not love her? Cicely had managed to get out of England and halfway across the world to find her brother on her own wit, adapted, fitted in and caused no fuss in her role as mizzenlad aboard the "Surprise", taking the conditions aboard along with the rest of the men. She had got along with her crewmates, forged a friendship with her pair, had worked cruel hours with very little rest and food just to be near her brother. Had Edward Hollum not taken his own life…had Cicely managed to speak to him…things may have been different. How could he not have grown in affection for such a person such as her? Her spirit, bravery and determination? Not that he had never known the intimacy of women before Robert Young, but this…more than fondness…more even than desire…

"Taking tea with Sophie," purported the Captain, grinning widely and beaming at the doctor. "Organising a social event. Pursuing your research. My wife has many facets, as does yours. I do not think boredom will avail them." Not boredom, thought Stephen quickly. The only life they had known together had been aboard the Surprise. Their own floating island away from the rest of the world. Since her departure a small part of him had gone with her and he had not been quite the same.

"What hour do you depart?" Jack continued his conversation as he began to walk towards the stern. Stephen followed, feeling the wind blowing towards them from the open harbour.

"Post meridian. It is vital I reach the town in good time." Aubrey nodded. He had known Stephen for many years and for most of them that he was a spy. He did not like to question his friend on such matters but he found himself wondering when, or even if they would sail together again.

"We made it into the Mediterranean faster than I thought," replied Aubrey, craning his neck upwards to inspect the mast refitting. To get the timber into just the correct position, checking the sheets and mainsail the men would have to spend most of the day and the following one. All aboard knew how important the job was. The minutes which could be lost or saved through the ship's sailing efficiency may mean the difference between victory and defeat when they next engaged in battle.

"And you are to rendezvous with the Acheron?" Stephen turned his face to the harbour breeze and focused his mind clearly on his friend's future movements. "You'll be pleased to see Tom Pullings, no doubt." Jack's face broke into a smile and he clapped his friend on the back.

"Indeed," he chuckled, "Indeed. However that will have to wait. We were supposed to rendezvous with the "Charlotte", which is what she is called under the Flag. That has changed and we are to depart to Calais where I will meet up with my old First Lieutenant. A welcome re-acquaintance."

Stephen looked at his friend, then nodded, taking in what Jack had just told him. Surprise would be in the Channel within a week and within two sailing with the "Victory" wheresoever Admiral Lord Nelson decreed. However Dr. Maturin had hoped that the ship which Aubrey had won for the Navy in the South Pacific from the French would indeed be moored alongside them. Not least to buy a few more days aboard "Surprise" but he could have informed his contact in London that it was necessary for him to delay until the next mail coach in order to interrogate what remained of the "Acheron" crew. John Fotherington may well have been long buried at sea but it seemed that repercussions of his actions, or rather, his failed actions had had a wide-ranging impact. Dr. Maturin would need all his wit about him once he entered France and the would be little chance to board the "Charlotte" and question the men aboard in an English Channel port.

"And you will be behind the enemy's frontier," stated Aubrey, conversationally but from his tone Stephen could tell his friend would miss his company as much as he would miss Jack's. "Do you know how long you will be gone? I may have Hardy, but I'm sure I don't want to keep him. Banjo player, indeed!"

"Shall we move to your quarters?" Stephen was aware that the foredeck was becoming rather crowded now and he wished he had longer. Considering what was ahead perhaps it would be wise to confide in Jack a little. His friend must have picked up on this as once through the thick oak door of Aubrey's quarters the Captain smiled at his friend.

"I may be many things, Stephen, many things which you have rightfully levelled at my character, but I sense something is amiss." Maturin looked sharply at his friend before sagging at the shoulders.

"Are you not to meet with the flagship and sail with Nelson?" Jack turned to peruse the harbour hoping his prompting would allow the doctor to relieve his clearly troublesome burden. Other ships from other nations had joined them at the port, some naval while others merchant. Jack watched the wharfside bustle as he waited for his friend. Eventually Maturin spoke.

"I am," he confirmed and, as Aubrey turned from the window he saw his friend leaning his forehead on the heels of his hands. "But it is not as straightforward as you suppose. Assuming I pass unheeded into France, and that I am not delayed on my work, which may take several weeks, I then have to discover the whereabouts of "Victory". I do not know when I will be taking up surgery in Hardy's stead. So many uncertain things..." He let the half-sentence hang and looked at his friend.

"Life was so much simpler when my primary work was as your surgeon and my naturalism. Espionage was a good method of financing both. Now…"

Bonaparte had already won a great victory at Austerlitz on land. A battle won not by might but by espionage. Intelligence and counter—intelligence. And base foolishness. Such means would be more vital to victory or defeat in the future, Maturin was certain and Austerlitz had been a terrible blow to those opposing the Emperor. He hoped that what he was to do would redress the balance somewhat.

"It will like that again, I dare say." Jack sank into his plush, velvet-backed chair and examined his old sextant. "You will be sitting here with me within six months," he chuckled, "delighting me with the wonders and horrord of France…"

"The future in France is uncertain. _My_ future is uncertain!" Aubrey looked sharply at his friend, but his snapped response revealed more to the Captain than he suspected Maturin to know. "I wish I could be as sure as you," the doctor added solemnly.

"Let us part in good spirits then." Jack stood up and held out a hand to his friend, half expecting Stephen not to take it but the doctor shook it firmly and clapped his own over Aubrey's before taking it back and reaching into his waistcoat pocket.

"Here." Maturin gave Jack Aubrey a small piece of paper. "A tiny measure of contact if you hear from Cicely." Into Captain Aubrey's hand he placed it as he took the hand firmly and shook it. It didn't seem enough after nine years aboard the ship. Jack circumnavigated his large, oak desk and took a few steps towards Stephen, clapping him on the back.

"You are right, of course. It shouldn't take more than a few weeks, one or two months perhaps. I need to know what my orders are. But if you should hear from her…"

Jack knew Stephen was worried. Cicely had sent him but one letter, upon her arrival at Jack Aubrey's home and she had spoken about how much she appreciated Captain and Mrs Aubrey's hospitality. And that had been it. Almost three weeks with no word.

"Of course, old friend," replied Jack. "You know the post is less than reliable out of town." Stephen Maturin nodded but it had little conviction in it. Nevertheless time had run out for now and Jack Aubrey's surgeon, companion and friend was to be replaced with another surgeon, one who if not equalled Stephen's skill, came close to it.

Jack opened the door into the corridor which led to the steps below the foredeck. Maturin followed into the melee of working seamen. He looked at the gangplank which the men were hoisting into place, its metal studs grinding on the stone quay as the ship rocked gently about its mooring.

"You are docking at Portsmouth next, I believe?" Jack nodded as he looked around at his men. "Before you leave Dr. Hardy should arrive to relive Higgins." Stephen blinked into the mid-August sunshine which chose that moment to glance out from behind a large cumulus cloud. "I will meet you back at whatever dock you happen to be at once my mission is done."

"We sail to Calais, Doctor," replied Jack, hands balled up as fists he placed them on his hips. "And after then, I wait to see." Maturin nodded resignedly. Such was life aboard a warship. Nothing was known more than a fortnight in advance and it was always subject to change. Few plans could be made, especially with what his own future held.

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Sunlight flooded the hallway of Litten Hall, lapping at the drawing-room's open door and threatening to wash into the library. It got its way when the lady of the house pushed its panelled door and, with letter in hand, sought a comfortable repose in order to read its contents through for the fourth time.

Above the fireplace hung a large portrait of Sophie Aubrey's husband, commissioned when he was at sea (she knew Jack would never have posed for an artist in full regalia, even for her) and she smiled briefly at the Captain more in uncertain relief than humour.

She had been back from the Darwins' for just over a week and had made her way home swiftly when it had been established that Cicely had gone, far sooner than expected despite both Robert and Susannah's vehement insistence that she remain for the intended time. Awkward described the situation very mildly indeed. Difficult was closer to the mark despite her hosts' reassurances that Mrs Aubrey should remain. Following her return home Sophie also felt another, far uglier emotion, that of embarrassment that such events had taken place and consequential reflections upon her and, by extension, her husband's reputation.

Sitting back in her favourite chair, scroll-backed, mahogany chaise-langue with blue silk covers, Mrs Aubrey read carefully the words which were scratched seemingly at haste on poor-quality paper but, she thought, it was better than nothing. Cicely Maturin was alive. That was something at least. But the manner of her disappearance, the questioning by Shrewsbury's sheriff, the awkwardness she felt in the presence of the Darwins…all this had been brought about by the young lady's abscondment. Sophie Maturin shook the double-folded paper open again and began to read the neat, if faint, writing.

"Forgive me, Mistress Aubrey," she had written. "Once you read this letter I will have been gone. I explained to you about my former situation. The past has come to haunt me, and rather than bring shame to your household, I have departed the county, and your splendid, hospitable, welcoming company."

Shame, pondered Sophie Aubrey. Would that have been shameful? Yes, she supposed it was. But by disappearing, by running away, surely that was shameful too? Did it not suggest that Cicely was in the wrong and knew it? Or were Magistrate Wigg and Sir Richard Hollum so hateful? Though her social connections were comprehensive they did not stretch as far as Gloucestershire nor as high as upper middle classes. Such being, Mrs Aubrey could not recall the gentlemen or anyone who may know them.

"I know that I have left a situation behind which is both difficult and uneasy for you." Mrs Aubrey continued with the missive. "Difficult because of the questions which Wigg, no doubt, held you to. Uneasy because you will not know what to tell your husband."

She is perceptive, thought Sophie. Perceptive, intelligent, quick-witted, deft…wild-natured... On the occasions that Mrs Aubrey had spoken to Cicely Maturin about her life prior to and aboard "Surprise" the girl's face glowed and her eyes shone. There was something about such freedom that she had acquired which spurred her on, kept her going, perhaps even exhilarated her, not only the unshackling of herself to her father and would-be suitor.

And that was the point which irked Mrs Aubrey: had she put adventure ahead of the thoughts, feelings and reputations her hostess and of those at "The Mount"? Shaking her head as if to dislodge this hornet of bad feeling Sophie read on.

"It is true, Mrs Aubrey. All that Benjamin Wigg says is true. As you know, as I told you, I was betrothed to him, against my will. However I left my father and chose to be free – "

Free, thought Sophie Aubrey. Cicely had chosen to be free. She had spurned her would-be lover and left the bounds of her father's estate. Certainly her father had every right to do as she wished with her, as the law of England stated. Sophie knew ship's marriages held the same weight as those in a church. But for Wigg to claim her subsequent marriage to Maturin to be invalid, well…that was a case for a judge. And, of course, Cicely's disappearance meant Wigg and Sir Hollum too, had very little for a judge to consider.

"Know only this, for I am sure this letter will have been intercepted on its journey to you: – " Swiftly, Sophie turned over the letter, looking analytically at the wax seal made by cheap tallow across the fold. There were one or two deep cracks possibly made during delivery or through Sophie's own haste in opening the letter. She could not determine just by looking at it whether it had been opened prior to her receiving it. It was possible, nonetheless.

" - that I am well and intend to be with my husband, who I love dearly. I value your unquestioning and wholehearted welcome of me into your home, and I wish to convey my esteemed gratitude, and honour, for your unreserved generosity and friendship and also for such similar hospitality of Dr. and Mrs Darwin – "

Doctor Darwin had allowed Wigg to go through his house and watched the man get angrier and angrier at his fruitless search before shooing him out once it had become clear that Cicely had gone and the household which had been awoken quickly abedded. Early the following day Dr. Darwin had visited Shrewsbury to speak to the Sheriff there, with the intent on sending out militiamen to search for her. He had asked that the Sheriff to guarantee Cicely's protection should she be found and her situation investigated; it had been in vain however because, upon his arrival, Benjamin Wigg also had the ear of the Sheriff and was bending it to his will with large amounts of wealth.

" - and if you would be kind enough to pass on my true sorrows to them I would be forever in your debt – "

In the event Cicely was not found and the matter was dropped even by Wigg himself. It didn't prevent the muscular knot in Sophie's stomach tightening at every answer of "The Mount's" front door or her uneasiness in the presence of her hosts. Even the Darwin children putting on a play about the Spanish Armada the following day had done little to lighten the mood.

" – I will repay with the money I took from the kitchen when I am able. Above all, please do not worry. Your friend, Cicely."

Do not worry! Do not worry? Sophie Aubrey was on her feet now and she repeated the words in disbelief to her pigmented husband. Of course she was worried! Heaven knew where Cicely Maturin was; who knew whether she was still alive?

Well, she thought, pacing her own drawing room-cum-library, a far more modest affair than Dr. Darwin's, she must have been alive at least a week ago for her to have sent the letter. Sophie knew that she could contact the Admiralty: as a Captain's wife she had similar rights of access to Admiralty House for such purposes as administration and there was a possibility that new recruits would be listed there.

But, of course, that was if Cicely Maturin intended to disguise herself and use her previous pseudonym, or whether she would even seek out her husband through naval channels. Sophie Aubrey paused, allowing her arm to fall to her side with the letter still in her hand and made her way across to the window, allowing her gaze to fall on the box hedges which outlined Litten Hall's fragrant sitting garden.

It was an understandable response, there was no doubt about that. A young woman who had managed to get herself to a ship in the Pacific Ocean to find her kin was a woman with wit and guile. Clearly such action was self preservation. Nevertheless…

In the late August sunshine zephyrs danced in the fruit trees as Mrs Aubrey considered whether Cicely's marriage to her husband's friend had been convenient for more than one reason. Sophie had listened to Cicely when she had told her of her plight: that her father had intended she marry for the financial connections he would make. How happy she was with Stephen Maturin, she explained. She thought back to the conversation which had occurred a few days into the girl's stay. Cicely Maturin was no liar. It was the_ way_ she talked about the Doctor. She spoke in the same tone and manner about him as she, Sophie, thought about Jack.

Raising her arm Sophie Aubrey looked at Cicely's letter again. She had solen the money, clearly, to send the letter or she had used that which she had admitted to taking from "The Mount". It was unusual for anyone to pre-pay mail but again Sophie could hear Cicely's mind reverberate around the epistle that she held: she considered it vital for Sophie Aubrey to receive it and the lady of Litten Hall was unlikely to accept it otherwise. Undoubtedly Cicely Maturin wished to temper the situation for she did not know how Mrs Aubrey would feel about the manner of her disappearance.

Well, she would have to inform Jack of the situation. Turning her back on her beloved garden Sophie Aubrey walked back over to her husband and looked up at him, standing proudly in oil in his gilt frame. Cicely had pre-empted her actions again. Unfolding the letter again Mrs Aubrey found the sentence and re-read it.

"...uneasy because you will not know what to tell your husband..."

Ah yes. She read the sentence again and thought again about her next course of action. At least she had the letter which Cicely had written, something she had intended to send it to Jack. However she did not wish a sully to be brought upon her husband's reputation and should, as Cicely Maturin's letter, be traced sending it in its entirety to her husband may damage his career.

But the situation shouldn't reflect on his career: the paperwork from such a marriage aboard a naval vessel would be in the archives of Admiralty House. Wigg, with his contacts abounding across the land, or so he had claimed at "The Mount", should easily be able to track it down. Sophie knew more than the records showed, however. The evidence was in her hand at the moment despite nothing crystal being written therein and should she be implicated in –

- implicated in what? There was nothing which could be discerned from Cicely's letter and nothing which could not be guessed from it or anything from her past actions. Captain Aubrey and she were merely bystanders.

Crossing the room to her bureau Sophie sat on her beautiful walnut writing chair, drawing it closer to the flat surface which she had unfolded earlier that morning. Sunlight glanced through the window illuminating its green leather surface.

She refolded the letter which Cicely had sent and, drawing a fresh sheet of paper began to write a brief of her own to her husband. Short, to the point, and of dutiful regret. She needn't worry him with her own concerns about their lives nor her measure of shame that she felt for both them and the Darwins' that the girl Jack had sent to live with her had embarrassed them.

Once she had finished Sophie folded her letter around Cicely's, tying a red ribbon around it and sealing both the ends of the ribbon and the edge of the paper with wax. She would have to send it to Admiralty House first, of course, where technically it could be read but Sophie knew in practice that this was rarely done and that, depending upon the location of "Surprise" Jack should receive it within a week.

A knock on the door made Sophie turn and Mary stood by the door, holding the day's newspaper. A few words later, having shooed Mary off with the letter she retired back to her chaise, reading the first column. This time a sailor had been found alive, a mutiny survivor, on Les Erchons, the tiny islands close to France which England held sovereignty. Always a story on the front page, thought Mrs Aubrey, and turned to the next.

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Long shadows were beginning to fall across the courtyard of the inner office buildings. William Wickham had been watching them grow longer and longer as the time to his leaving approached. His work that afternoon, though as important as any other, was repetitive and Wickham he had felt his mind wandering on several occasions to his weekend ahead, his meeting with an acquaintance, his going home.

Approaching the large, oak door behind him he anticipated the satisfactory clunk of the lock joins meeting snugly, which they would, in about five minutes' time. Five minutes after that he would be walking across the courtyard and onto the main street, heading back to his smart house in an even smarter part of London.

On this occasion however, five minutes later an altogether different affair was taking place. The door, unlocked, hung open as the man who had pushed through them four minutes before advanced on Wickham until he was back where he had been all afternoon.

It was his responsibility of course. Of course it was. But he had grown accustomed to leaving the office promptly on a Friday evening and to have the man standing over him was altogether uncouth.

But so was the man for whom this other, standing before him now glaring at him with eyes like gimlets, represented. A bully. Wickham was used to dealing with such men: as a middle-ranking officer himself he had come to know how such men worked. On many occasions intelligence and wit were enough and often such impressive successes had gone shamefully un-noticed.

Other times pulling rank, attention brought to the law or demotion of wealth and reputation worked just as well. Now, William Wickham discerned, none such methods would triumph. It was likely, though not certain, that he might have to concede.

As the man shouted and stalked before him bells of recollection began to ring in Wickham's mind, not least because a name then, as now, was familiar and he tried to concentrate on important aspects of the man's tirade…something about a marriage being illegal in Great Britain…

"Tell me, Wickham has the law changed so much without my noticing that a woman can marry without her father's consent?"

William Wickham switched his attention to the skinny, weasel-faced man who was demanding it. Wickham knew him, knew he was the paid instrument of rich men.

"It is indeed." Wickham had sat back down and was shuffling the papers he had been so keen on leaving behind him a quarter of an hour before. Suddenly they seemed much more interesting than the conversation in which he was currently engaged.

"Hmph!" snorted the man, Jeremiah Buckley, clearly satisfied momentarily with Wickham's confirmation. "And the law is clear that whomsoever marries such a woman does break the law?"

"Indeed." Legal concerns were low on Wickham's list of priorities. Though he had trained at the bar matters more constitutional and criminal were where his expertise generally lay although he knew nearly every writ by heart. Hence his apparent dismissive responses to Buckley, who appeared to be getting a little agitated at Wickham's demeanour.

"And therefore, is the marriage is invalid?" Wickham put down his pages of reference notes and leaned back in his chair. He analysed Buckley's face briefly before getting up from his chair and crossing to the window-side bookshelf. He must at least put on a front, Wickham told himself, or Buckley would not take him seriously. He could have answered the questions which Wigg had instructed Buckley to ask him within the matter of seconds, and answer others which he hadn't even considered.

Such was the nature of William Wickham's mind, which lent itself squarely to the multifaceted role he had currently, that he could remember practically everything that he read. Downsides were completion of repetitive, monotonous tasks such as the one of that afternoon where his mind would wander merrily and time would march by while his productivity was nil.

Therefore it took Wickham practically half a minute to recall the names which Buckley was shouting at him. He even recalled the day, the time of day and the weather, even the drawer in which the documents had been filed at Admiralty House. How Toby Hamilton's moustache waggled as he spoke. It would be waggling again soon, Wickham had little doubt, when Buckley, or even Wigg himself came pounding on the door.

Sighing for effect, Wickham scanned the shelves before picking up a blue-spined reference book. He paused, pulling it carefully from its abode before leafing the pages over, before making his way back to his desk.

"Hm," pondered Wickham, pinching his eyebrows together before nodding over the book's horizon at Buckley.

"Well?" he emanded impatiently as William Wickham placed the book open onto his desk. "What does it say?"

"If you would permit me a further few moments," requested Wickham, getting back up and returning to the shelf this time, turning his back on Buckley's boring stare. He selected another and turned to a relevant chapter. Only then did he realise the obnoxious man was waving something in his direction. Wickham took it from the man's pallid hand and opened it. Therein confirmed by Sir Richard Hollum himself, whom he supposed was this Cicely Hollum's father, that he had granted only his permission for his daughter to marry Wigg. From what he knew of both of these men Wickham found himself pitying the erstwhile Miss Hollum.

Placing the letter unfolded onto his desk William Wickham perused his book again "Hm'ing" a few more times, his eyes darting back to the original book before nodding again. He looked back to the Buckley and held steady his determined stare.

"It is clear. Miss Hollum is of course still her father's property. And we have documentary evidence from both Sir Hollum and Mr Wigg, which you have laid before me."

"There! I told him!" Jeremiah Buckley performed a sort of one-legged jug on the spot in triumph. Clearly the man would be praised with large amounts of cash for the information Wickham had just provided for him. "Anyone who stands in your way, Sir Benjamin, would be guilty of breaking the law!" Wigg's weasel-faced right-hand man waved his cane skywards in a celestial celebration addressing his master as if he were there. Then he fixed Wickham with a beady stare. "The papers, then?"

"Hm," nodded Wickham, going to other bookshelf and, selecting large, leatherbound file, opened it up in the desk. Buckley peered forward hungrily. Taking the documents out Wickham leafed through them before shaking his head.

"The documents should be here – " he darted a look at the index page before looking back impassively at Buckley " – but, of course, they will have been held by Admiralty House before arriving here. A naval interest, you see," he qualified as Jeremiah Buckley snorted air out through his nose.

"Admiralty House?" demanded Buckley his eyes bulging. "Admiralty House?"

"Indeed," confirmed Wickham, holding his features determinedly straight so as not to betray his inner joy at the man's discomfort. How he wished he could be invisibly present when he spoke to Wigg that evening, watching Buckey's thin, musteline features contort in the effort of explaining why he had not been able to deliver what one of the most powerful men in the country wanted. Why, it almost made up for his being inconvenienced that evening.

"The document will eventually come into my possession of course…" Wickham tailed off as Buckley began to pace agitatedly across the floor. "Perhaps even as early as next Wednesday." Wickham wondered whether that had been a step too far, whether Buckley would explode on the spot like a nine-pounder. Instead, to his disappointment, the man merely grabbed the letter he had just shown Wickham and stamped loudly on the floor of the room. He was slow enough however for Wickham see angst fleet across Buckley's features as went.

"And a good evening to you," murmured Wickham as the oak-panelled door reverberated back off the hinges.

Staring at the now-closed door Wickham contemplated what was before him: the document Buckley had required was indeed not in the folder and Wickham was sure it would still be with Admiralty House. Should he himself be implicated in such matters that the idiot Buckley had presented him with, his current situation and those connected to him would become tainted with scandal, one which, at the very least, may destroy any intelligence advances Britain had made in their war against Bonaparte.

Well, that which Admiralty House held, the document he had seen all those months ago, he could allow someone else to deal with. Clearly the substance of what the document contained had made its way to Wigg, or to Sir Hollum somehow. Now, he had other matters to consider, namely the mess that Fotherington had left for the enemy which he needed to turn to his advantage.

Sinking back into his chair Wickham, former serviceman, chief in military law and head of espionage operations in Great Britain, closed both books he had been feigning to read and sighed deeply. Things had just become a little more complicated now. Not agonisingly so that he should have to alter his plans, but delicate. Much as he enjoyed the thrill of complications he knew he must meet with his counterpart Stephen Maturin in three days' time in France.

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	5. Old Beginnings

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Rain. Though it was the height of summer cumulonimbus clouds jostled one another to be the next to throw down their precipitous precipitation. The showers had been occurring at annoyingly regular intervals drenching the men who were extending the canal basin; coating the machinery and tools with a thin, oily film which made them difficult to use; causing the ground to ooze treacherous mud and making life even more unpleasant for Cicely Maturin.

The camp in which the navigationals lived was fast becoming a bog. Their employ was carried out mainly in the summer taking advantage of long daylight hours and as such the living areas were much exposed to the weather – too much in such conditions. The navvies' pace of work had slowed in their effort to keep as much of the sleeping parts of their rough, wooden shacks with large stones placed over canvas to prevent their bedding getting too wet and expensive food having to be purchased in the nearby pubs of Stourbridge for the evening weather was too inclement to keep a fire burning long enough. Even those men who traipsed long miles to the canal did so disconsolately.

A month since absconding from the Mount and the generous hospitality of the Darwins and Cicely had moved with the canal thirty miles away. She had hoped they would be nearer south by now and at first the crippling work had kept her almost stationary just outside Shrewsbury. The pay-off of staying under cover and knowing that Magistrate Wigg would have the militia and possibly even the King's men out looking for her was a constant worry to her at night in the first few weeks.

But now they were progressing and Cicely had changed companies twice; navvies in canal-building often changed employers a dozen times in a year meeting the demands of the owners and managers. Almost as soon as warrants were granted canal managers on behalf of the landowners through whose property the canal would run scouted other managers' camps looking for fitters, hauliers and diggers, especially those with experience. The second company, depending upon the progress of their own waterway, may be keen to sell on the labourers, reducing their costs. Canal managers barely knew the names of those whose hands they bought, nor indeed cared.

As long as you kept your head down and worked hard in appalling conditions for your meagre pay that was all that mattered. A very effective way, Cicely had found out, of traversing England if you were desperate enough. It was the very method she had used to escape her father's home in Gloucestershire almost three years before.

Water dripped down Cicely's face as she pushed yet another barrow of black earth up thin oak planks, trying not to slip as she had done several times before. The work was as tough as what she was used to aboard "Surprise"; filthy, hard, onerous. Nothing physically she couldn't cope with after her life at sea.

But the difference, even to her previous experience on the Kennet and Avon, was shocking –all of the men were treated little better than slaves. Those with more experience and skills fared better as the managers knew that they needed the cutters and diggers to work efficiently. But carriers like her who ferried the cut dirt to the top of the embankments were treated foully. If any camaraderie did exist between the men, changing as often as they did between companies, none was fostered by the managers of the canals. Even at her lowest ebb, detained below decks and awaiting a flogging, even then Cicely had felt freer…happier…

Such conditions here, as a canal navigational made you soiled, sore and lousy within days and kept you like that for months; knowing that half of your paltry wages were deducted for wear and tear on your tools; that the time off you were supposed to have for Sundays was quietly ignored for even if you were to attend the local church in whichever town you happened to be working you probably would have been hounded out by the locals, perpetual outsiders that navigationals were, travelling as they did from town to town. Through knowing such things it was therefore inevitable that rough-cut whisky was commonplace in the navvies' squalid camp and probably the only thing that held their sorry community together. It was better than being with Wigg, but only just.

The first night she had slept in the encampment - and many nights after that - Cicely had cried silently to herself. It wasn't just the incessant sodden ground underfoot, or the sickening stench, the squalor, the working from the first glances of dawnlight to the failing light of dusk, or the men around her at night coughing consumptively or shouting blasphemes or brawling. It wasn't even that she needed to keep in her clothing anything she didn't want stolen, as was wordlessly commonplace around the makeshift village.

Cicely had prayed to God every night as she tied her bindings a little tighter to keep out the cold (lack of proper food had made her thin since she had took up her old disguise). She prayed for forgiveness for the unkind way she had left Dr. and Mrs Darwin, and Mrs Aubrey too. For that sorrow she had managed to pay a lad to post a letter in the previous town to Mrs Aubrey expressing her sorrow and hoping to at least put a little of the woman's mind at rest.

Any time she caught her mind wandering to the Captain's wife, in whose lap she had left the most ignominy, she worked herself harder. The war against the French would be won by Britain's military forces but it was through the trade of the country's manufactured goods to the world, Cicely had long ago surmised, that victory would be secured. And her guilt was usually assuaged.

Then she prayed for the Surprise and that it had docked in Calais safely. It surely must have. When she could Cicely had scoured the alehouses for scraps left behind by the better off the diggermen she occasionally chanced on a newspaper. Though it tended to report mainly provincial news the war was always covered.

Cicely prayed for the souls of her brother and her stillborn son too and asked for hope that they were safe with Him in heaven. If she had a baby with her now…or a month ago…? He would have been declared illegitimate at the very least…and at the very most…?

A prayer for her husband, that he would listen to her and forgive her what she had done to his reputation and...his friendship with Captain Aubrey…she wanted so badly to be in his arms, to talk to him, to explain. And then there was her unspoken, almost unthinkable fear…that Stephen…

And even to God on one occasion Cicely had asked for forgiveness for her father and Wigg, and for her less than honourable, daughterly actions. Cicely had never done it again though for, once her guilt to her duty had been thought, other thoughts had crept into her mind that had surely been temptations and she had reflected on the general hubbub of the navvies, fighting and cursing…and her sorry, self-imposed situation. Would she to walk to the nearest town and tell her tale to the local magistrate and she would be in luxurious surroundings within days…

Perhaps, if it was as her mother said, that it was God's will that ill-fortune should come about, that it was for a reason. Perhaps she could atone for all her misdoings against God and the King by her presence with _these_ men doing_ this_ work. Until things came right Cicely knew her duty was to work very hard and shield herself from comfort. Surely God would know her heart, her shortcomings, her longing, her love.

"You! I say,_ you_!" A large, burly manager who Cicely knew could be especially hard on the carriers screamed in the direction of the man in behind her. Boy, corrected Cicely to herself – the lad was barely as old as William Blakeney, and was in far worse physical condition. "Faster," the man cajoled. "If you don't get it done faster next time, you're for it!" Cicely shuddered inwardly as the young boy picked up the pace, trying to go faster up the boards.

"Slow down!" hissed Cicely under her breath, "or you'll come a cropper." But either the boy hadn't heard Cicely or refused to listen and he tried to pick up the pace. Ten minutes later Cicely tipped her load of earth onto the bank, raking it into a pile and wincing as the boy was being thrashed for slipping and knocking the three men behind him back down the slope, barrows and all. Another company comes tomorrow, Cicely thought as she heaved her now empty barrow back down towards the basin, wincing a little – the boy's fate today had been hers a week before.

Somehow she had to get across the Channel to Calais. The "Surprise" would dock there, she knew, once provisions and refitting work had taken place in Portsmouth. If it had already sailed she could find out where it was headed.

Cicely sighed into her shovel as she drove it into the pre-dug earth, bitter wind whipping past her on this an August day. Perhaps the "Grand Union" would want carriers tomorrow and perhaps they'd be heading south.

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The long process of refitting "Surprise" was almost over. Soon Captain Jack Aubrey would be sailing the high seas, carrying out Naval commands to the best of his ability and perhaps, even to the better of his ability. He could feel the wind in his hair now on this bright summer's day; taste the salt in the air as the spray whipped against the side of the ship – he felt alive again, with fire in his stomach: how he always felt when he knew he was about to command his ship to honour and glory.

Repairing the vessel had taken almost three weeks – his men had done their best with limited resources at hand in the South Americas and that had got them to Europe. But to bring up to the standard of a warship – something Aubrey suspected was to be crucial in the months to come – that was a task worthy of the best shipyards in Europe. Not that England's harbours weren't up to the job, far from it. Great Britain needed the loyalty of Italy's nobility, isolated as they were and fearful of their own heads, or rather, lack of them. Britain paid Italy's noble houses so the men in their employ could to what was necessary for its fleet, thus keeping ideas of revolution, as had happened prior to Napoleon, far from the minds of the lower classes.

Things would soon be the same, mused Aubrey as he oversaw the last few touches to "Surprise." The men, working as hard as they ever would under sail, were looking forward to their last day of rest before the ship set out to Portsmouth harbour. And from there, Jack knew, orders would be delivered to him; orders which he suspected would see his ship as part of the flagship Victory's fleet. He remembered similar arrangements under his old captain when he was a midshipman aboard this very ship – refit the decking, new sails and rigging – before the Battle of the Nile. _That_ was thrilling; _that_ was what every naval captain wanted, ultimately: to play their part and lead their men to glory. To be another nail in old Bonaparte's invasion plan; to win the day.

Not exactly the same, though. As Maturin had predicted, Hardy had been piped aboard almost a week before to replace him as ship's surgeon, the same day that his friend had left. The crew had accepted him readily enough, he was efficient and of course and Aubrey at least had a companion. Though the man was likeable, he really was not Maturin, the companion, friend and confidante he had spent so many years with. Presumably then, his friend would be aboard "Victory" at some point, carrying out Hardy's duties for Nelson's fleet, to continue, he supposed, further espionage work.

Regardless of the incomparison however, Hardy was clearly used to grander things and was clearly used to saying so. He gave Aubrey the distinct impression that the "Surprise" was not nearly as grand as he was used to, clearly baulking inwardly at the size and equip of Maturin's old quarters and making his feelings about cleanliness of the crew, their quality and diet plain. Within days Hardy had managed to annoy the midshipmen however, Blakeney especially, to whom Dr. Maturin had been so dear and Aubrey had to remind the youngster that Thomas Hardy was not with them forever and to give the man an opportunity to show his commitment to them. Such aspersions towards his beloved "Surprise" merely willed both the men, middies and Aubrey too to make bolder efforts in the mending of the ship, making it gleam as it did so now, like the gem of the oceans that it was.

At Portsmouth too, "Surprise" was to meet with the "Acheron"; Jack's initial orders had been since superseded and he was to meet his former First Lieutenant, who he himself had made Captain of the French-won ship, under her new name, "Charlotte". That was something Aubrey could not quite understand – not that he was to question the Admiralty and, of course, he was just to follow orders to the best of his ability, like his men with his.

Perhaps it was Hardy's presence – clearly being surgeon to Admiral Nelson had left its mark – or the lack of familiarity he had with his new surgeon. At least this doctor would not require "Surprise" to stop every so often to investigate the natural marvels of some island or other, something that Jack Aubrey had come to expect and anticipate from his surgeon. Whatever it was, something did not sit right, and for the life of him, Jack Aubrey could not tell what.

Another pacing of the deck set this quandary to the back of his mind. His men had worked hard, very hard and Jack suspected he could sense the mood. Anticipation and uncertainty. It was always there in the air of a battle ship whose crew were waiting like coiled springs to fire into action. They would be ever more in the mood when "Surprise" sailed tomorrow, and they knew that evening they could relax into raucous merriment.

"Good morning, Sir." William Mowett smiled a smile you could warm your hands on. "It'll be good to be under sail on the morrow, will it not?"

Exhaling, Aubrey smiled back to his First Lieutenant, formerly his Second Lieutenant to Pullings prior to the latter's promotion to Captain aboard "Acheron".

"Indeed, Mr Mowett, it will indeed. I'll wager we'll reach the Straits before the third day is out, and be at Portsmouth before the end of next week, with a good wind behind us."

"Yes, sir. Sir," enquired Mowett, walking the deck with Jack Aubrey. "May I ask, my promotion, Captain. I was wondering, sir, whether – "

" – whether it is to be permanent?" Aubrey looked at the older man, whose point had been conveyed eloquently enough for its meaning to be understood without seeming too uncouth. "I have, William, sent my report many months ago to Admiralty House. Unless I hear otherwise before we receive our outgoing orders, then we are to assume that my recommendations for promotion have been accepted. Captain Pullings, I expect, will not wish to return to his former rank – "

A look of uncertainty crossed the man's face and Jack Aubrey concluded, " – barring high water or hell, the position is yours, William." He clapped the man on the back, to reinforce his point; he knew as well as Mowett that this was probably the last chance the man would have at such a rank. "And I do not believe Mr. Blakeney would be so willing to give up your former rank either. So unless you feel the need to tell him yourself – "

" – no, sir," confirmed First Lieutenant Mowett. "I don't think I could bear the responsibility of that task. Thank you, sir," he added. The men continued their procession across the foredeck.

"The men are happy with the provisions currently. We are lucky to be detained in such a civilised port."

"Indeed so," replied Mowett. "I have made arrangements for as much fresh as we can adequately carry be aboard at dawn. Salted meat too and ale," he added proudly.

"Very good," nodded Aubrey. The Lieutenant was efficient and knew his job well. Had it not been for his age through the prior misfortune of missing out on promotion in his youth Mowett ma well have developed into a fine captain by now

"How do you feel Dr. Hardy is settling in?" Aubrey glanced sidewards towards Mowett, who laughed aloud. "Do you think we suit him?" he added.

"No indeed," replied Mowett, "I believe we are a little too humble for the good Doctor. He is efficient, nonetheless." Aubrey nodded in agreement.

"Indeed he is. Three wounded men in a week and he has treated them most professionally."

"His manner is indeed a little different to Dr. Maturin though, if you don't mind my saying, sir."

Yes, he is, thought Aubrey. Very little connection between himself and the men. Stephen's manner towards the crew had been personable, almost instructive and it had won him the respect of all. What would it be like now had he still been with them? Taking in Stromboli, or inquiring into other natural phenomena.

"Not at all, William. Now, can you tell me why Second Lieutenant is not attending his duty?" He watched Mowett examine Blakeney's erratic procession across the deck, his neck inclined with interest at the planks.

"Sir, I do believe he has being particularly thorough with the handling of the new men we picked up in Jeddah, if you don't mind my saying so," replied the man. "A real raggedy bunch if ever I met 'em sir. I think every warship in the fleet got there before we did to pick from the best."

Aubrey affirmed his Lieutenant's sentiments and Mowett added, "I'll enquire to his behaviour. Blakeney?" Mowett made his way over to his slight subordinate, waiting for the teenager to look back. "Why are you not supervising your squad?" Will Blakeney smiled back to the older man pointed to the deck.

"I've found a train of beetles." He gestured to the deck, his wide in youthful naivety before darting his glance between Aubrey and Mowett. "The men have all finished their duties. I've overseen them and – I was about to continue checking," he added.

"Then about to it," Aubrey commanded. "The sun will soon be setting and we will be asail in the morn. You will be able to complete your…naturalistic research when we stand down."

"Yes sir," nodded Blakeney, whose interest in naturalism had only increased with the passing of time. "Of course. Shall I show you, Lieutenant?" Mowett returned the youngster's smile.

"Yes, Lieutenant," Mowett confirmed.

"Oh, before I forget Captain – " Blakeney handed Jack Aubrey two letters. "They arrived just now from Genova. I was meaning to given them to you." As Second Lieutenant any mail that arrived was his responsibility. This had been the first delivery for almost two years, in the port of Sao Paolo in Brazil. The men were all eager to hear from loved ones and the like, not least Jack himself.

"Thank you, Will." Jack Aubrey held out a hand, waiting for the boy to give them to him.

"One of them looks like it's from Mrs Aubrey. It's very pretty…" Rather than handing them over Blakeney examined the one face up, it's lettering neat and curved. "

"Thank you Will," Aubrey repeated, keeping his arm extended.

"Her writing is very nice – "

"Mr. Blakeney – " But Will Blakeney was analysing the second.

"This is from Admiralty House." Mowett's brow creased a little and Aubrey gave him a short glance. "Probably orders for you, sir."

"Mr Blakeney!" exclaimed Aubrey in exasperation and the ex-midshipman looked startled.

"Mr. Blakeney," Mowett interjected softly. "Perhaps you'd like to give the Captain his letters then you can show me the work of your men?" Blakeney nodded.

"Yes, sir," he replied allowing Jack's hand to close at last around his mail. Leaving the two Lieutenants to amply cover the very last of the preparations Aubrey made his way to the quarterdeck, inspecting the outers of the two letters. One indeed did appear to be from Sophie; its girth indicated that she had sent him quite a missive. The other, Admiralty House. Clearly his interim orders before he reached British waters.

They were to sail adjacent Spain home to get back to Portsmouth, of course, which wasn't without its perils now the King of Spain had offered his allegiance to Napoleon. Aubrey presumed that he was to meet "Acheron", that had always been his presumption and, upon opening it found that he was correct. He was then to rendezvous with the flagship fleet and await further instructions at Calais.

Hm, Aubrey mused. Calais. Despite a stronghold of French resistant to Bonaparte, thus making the docks relatively safe for short periods, Jack had never been so sure. Nevertheless, these were his orders.

Tucking away the letter from his wife into his jacket pocket, Jack Aubrey made for the mizzendeck inhaling the warm, sweet air laden with the promise of action. He would read it later, perhaps in a day or two. For now, they were to be away.

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Before the rows of navigationals two managers from another canal company stood. It was highly unusual for the men to be allayed from their work and, in the increasingly hot day to which the miserable rain had yielded, the canal-men stood, blinking silently as one of them spoke.

"What we need are men who want to earn more money." He was rather tall, thinner than the other man who stood next to him, both of whom representing the "Grand Union", and spoke with a north-westerly accent. They had come before, almost a fortnight ago. Cicely had stood in line to volunteer to go with them, to go south, but she had been overlooked for more experienced navvies, stronger and bigger. Presumably this company had had enough general labourers and Cicely had been disappointed but, knowing other companies would arrive kept her hope.

Now she was getting desperate. Life had gone from bad to worse - the baking heat of mid-August had brought foul, putrid air to the navigationals' camp; drinking and brawling had become worse and pillaging of the camp had become a daily occurrence. In addition, the local militia had been regular visitors, arresting men and taking names and descriptions as thefts which had occurred in the surrounding villages were being blamed on the navvies.

Cicely had been close to being one of those questioned but had managed to slip away from the back of the group that was being herded away from the camp. Somehow she had to get to the South Coast and over the Channel, to find the Surprise once more.

"We need men who want to learn so's they can earn even more money." As the words of the canal company manager faded murmurs rose amongst the men. What did they want men so badly for? Cicely's silent question was answered by the muttering men around her: explosives…cutting…blasting…that was what the job was, and why it was important enough for the Shropshire Union, their present company, to have halted work. On nights when drink flowed less freely and some men were happy to talk to others, the very dangers of blasting rock to cut canals was spoken of, and spoken of gravely, for Cicely knew as well as any of the others that the life expectancy for men who went with companies who used explosives could be drastically reduced.

"Do you want more _money_?" demanded the manager adjacent the other one who had spoken. Clearly their offer had not produced the desired response.

"Ar!" came a half-hearted reply; amongst the workers other mutterings abounded.

"Ar, more money, but it's gunpowder and copper dowsers," yelled a man, a carrier, one who slept close to where she did. A few nights before he had, in a drunken state, kicked out at her when she had been crying too loudly, cursing and swearing at her before swaggering off. "Yow carr spend money when you'm dead!"

Cicely looked up to see the managers exchanging questioning glances. Clearly their only incentive to get the hands they were looking for, namely financial, had not been entirely successful.

But not entirely a failure either. A few of the more experienced men; some who Cicely recognised had been questioned by the militia; some younger boys with whom she worked shoulder to shoulder tipping earth – they were forming a small ragged group before the managers.

"Yes, the work'll be dangerous," confirmed the larger man, clearly happier now at having a few willing workers. "But yer'll be well paid fer it! And yer'll get yer food and – better shelterin's than them thereabouts – " he cast his arm towards the shacks in which the navvies lived, any unity between himself as a canal manager and that of the "Shropshire Union" going to the wall in a bid to recruit more. "And you'll have Sundays to yourself." As he spoke, a trickle of further men joined the group at the front. "We head to the Capital, to London herself."

Cicely felt a burden lift from her shoulders as she too made her way forward. She could see now how her actions were foolish, shameful, ungodly. She should have stood up to Wigg herself and declared what she was. Her only hope was to get to Stephen somehow and explain; hope he would forgive her. And might only be a matter of time for the militia men to discover her. That, all of that, was worth so risky an endeavour. The men were right; you had to be desperate to cut canals with explosives.

There was now a good two dozen men between her and those who had been tempted by the "Grand Union" managers. As she pushed her way ever forward Cicely could see the managers looking approvingly at those who had been convinced by their pitch.

As if for one last push, the thinner manager added: "Anyone else wish to volunteer?"

"Me!" shouted Cicely silently to herself, as she pushed past the last of the "Shropshire Union" stalwarts. "I volunteer!"

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	6. Doors, closed and open

"It's good of you to see me at such short notice." William Wickham, head of espionage and counterintelligence, shook hands with Henry Gordon, private secretary to Admiral Lord Nelson. He crossed the plush, green carpet of the office of Admiralty House and shook Gordon's hand, who smiled wryly. It had taken much shorter time than expected to gain an appointment but, Wickham supposed, what he was to discuss with the man was hardly usual.

Nor was it discreet – it appeared that Magistrate Benjamin Wigg had friends in high places and was using his influence to track down Miss Cicely Hollum by any means possible and the implications of this were starting to encroach on security. Questions were being asked which he neither needed nor wanted and had far-ranging implications.

"Please sit." Gordon, closed the door behind Wickham and gestured towards the mahogany chair situated on the other side of his desk. "You made it clear that national security was at stake." The man waited until Wickham had descended onto the red velvet plush before sitting himself, tall and still as if, Wickham concluded, his shoulders were being held up by strings from the ceiling.

"You had better begin. My Lord will need a full and frank account from your position." As the right-hand man of one of the most powerful men in the land Gordon's outward appearance was indescribably ordinary. The epitome of discretion the man was clearly intelligent, and probably as strategically adept as his superior; he operated in a seamless manner so that to the outside observer the mechanisms of the Admiral's day to day life would appear self-governing.

"Indeed," replied Wickham, leaning forward and swallowing a few times. "I believe the Admiral has been privy to information regarding the daughter of Sir Hollum?"

In all his long years as a spy never had he had to jump so many layers of hierarchy in such a short time and Wickham had used every contact he could and had called in many favours. Gordon nodded stiffly. Not, Wickham noticed, because the man was ill at ease with the question, more that it was his manner: efficiency in action and deed with nothing wasted on the unnecessary.

"I'll get straight to the point." Gordon lifted his arms and placed his elbows on his large, solid mahogany desk, its understated elegance silently trumpeting its quality. "Sir Richard Hollum has his influence at Westminster and Benjamin Wigg influence at court. Should Sir Hollum's daughter be amongst the crew of a naval vessel my Lord is obliged both morally and legally to command his captains to put her under wardship until such time she is returned to her father, or indeed her intended husband."

Wickham found himself nodding. Clearly Gordon was aware of the scandal which had pervaded social circles. Practically half of London knew that Cicely Hollum had run from her father and again from Wigg but very little else and stories abounded to fill the void. But that had been yesterday's news and this had been superseded by the threat of French invasion. Pushed through by both men's influence.

Wickham thought back to a conversation to which he had been unofficially privy just under a week ago involving his superior, Toby Hamilton, and Benjamin Wigg himself. In his mind's eye Wickham replayed the events of that night where the suilline Wigg had stamped heavily across the floor of Hamilton's office and Wickham had seen a side to his blustering boss quickly become a stammering fool. It was he, of course, who would have been coerced into approaching Gordon with the damning evidence.

"Yes," agreed Wickham, nodding in agreement. "And – "

" - and, from my own investigations she was married under a captain of my Lord's fleet to one of your men." Gordon fixed Wickham with a stare and the Wickham swallowed down his previous sentence. He was _good_, mused Wickham to himself. To have discovered this, the very news he was going to impart himself, all without Wickham discovering that he had found this out. Under different circumstances the spymaster would have very much liked to have recruited Gordon into his own practice.

"Indeed." Wickham agreed. "However there are complications, not least for the security of the country."

"Go on. I will need more information before I can propose anything to my Lord. The marriage between Miss Hollum and your man is clearly void under the laws of the land and while I can put things in place to delay my Lord's orders that is the extent of my influence." The private secretary stopped, unused to explanations not being forthcoming. He smiled, which appeared and disappeared so quickly William Wickham wondered whether he had imagined it.

"Can you tell me, for example, of the role of your man? Or where, perhaps, Miss Hollum may be at present?" Wickham swallowed again. He had anticipated both questions and for the latter he had very little.

"Miss Hollum left the company of Dr. and Mrs Darwin of the Mount, Shrewsbury, in mid-July. It is understood that Benjamin Wigg had discovered she was residing there, as a guest of Mrs Sophie Aubrey, under her husband's instructions." Wickham watched as Gordon began making notes with his expensive quill pen on pages in a large leather notebook open on his desk.

"As annoyed with Shrewsbury as the Wrekin giant," added Gordon, without looking up. William Wickham said nothing, glad that the secretary had not caught his eye, and wondered privately if this was the man's attempt at humour.

"As to her whereabouts since then, and for the last six weeks, I really could not say. She has an uncle, maternal, a cabinet maker from Ely – "

" – she could have fled to him?"

"No," replied Wickham, shifting in his seat. He had spent many long hours in preparation for such questions from the Admiral's secretary and though necessary, he knew, it was, nonetheless a diversion from his main employ. "This man has long since emigrated to the Americas and it appears Miss Hollum had very little to do with him. Her mother died at a young age and Sir Hollum kept both her and her brother from his wife's family. As to Maturin – " Wickham paused as Henry Gordon looked up.

"Ah yes, Stephen Maturin. His name appears in the record of Captain Aubrey of his marriage to Miss Hollum aboard his ship. He is recorded as being the ship's surgeon." Wickham found himself nodding. To reveal anything of his men to others was not done, not least for security reasons, and he was grateful to the private secretary for setting the context.

"This is where the complications lie," Wickham conceded. "And were his role not to change so significantly in the very near future I believe I could be a little more frank."

"And you can tell me nothing more?" Wickham shook his head.

"Only that the man can do what we require, that he is the best and that he is loyal to me."

Silence reigned, punctuated only by the ticking of a Cox longcase clock in the corner of the office. Eventually Gordon put down his quill and sat back stiffly. Or, Wickham concluded, even more stiffly than usual.

"I can delay my Lord's orders, though the time frame is small. I can do what is necessary within the hour, BUT – " Spitting out the rebuttal sharply Gordon clearly sensed Wickham's interjection and was determined to have the final say and co-ordinator of British espionage decided it was wise not to pursue any last minute appeals. His tone changing to mark the distinction between their ranks Henry Gordon continued.

"But that can be done. The recovery of Miss Hollum to her father will be in both our interests. It is the right and proper thing. Within the week, Wickham, mark my words, every captain in the fleet will be clear that if they are colluding in offering Miss Hollum passage, or indeed – " the private secretary took a sharp intake of breath through his teeth, " – _employment_, will be immediately disengaged."

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A cool autumn breeze tickled Cicely's face as she made her way with the company men from their rooms in Hanwell to the proto-basin of the Grand Union Canal. She was in London and, more than that, she had a plan.

Her luck had seemed to change since she had left Shropshire and, with those other brave, desperate or foolish men, walked the long miles to the site where they were to work with the new company. Without money, or assets of the equine variety, Cicely could never have hoped to get to the capital at such a speed but, of course, for the improvement in their lot, those men who worked from the Grand Union would, ultimately, pay a high price, that of their lives.

Cicely knew this, of course. Following their arrival at the wide, flat land in which they dug a fortnight before, not less than half of those who had gone with Cicely were still alive and many more were maimed.

The first time she had witnessed this, Cicely had been horrified. The men, in the same vein as for the Shropshire Union, dug out and banked up the earth on either side to create the cut. However, far from the soft, sandstone-based humus that was native to the Midlands: here, near the capital of the country, hard chalk pervaded which could not be shifted by shovel or spade. This was, of course, the reason for explosives.

However, the contrast between the treatment of the men by the canal company's management in terms of their accommodation, food and pay, which was generous, and their working conditions couldn't have been starker.

The cost of fuse line was taken from the men's pay. This was expected: navvies for any canal company expected stoppages in their wages for the equipment and materials they used. Men, therefore, cut the fuses far shorter than was safe to save money and as a result some navvies did not have a second chance to rethink such a dangerous strategy.

In addition, the use of copper rods to force down the explosives into hand-drilled holes into the chalk was commonplace and just as deadly as short fuse line. When the rods were removed from their holes, having been used to compact the explosives firmly, they rubbed and struck against the chalk surface causing sparks, igniting the explosives prematurely and finishing off any man unlucky enough to have been in the vicinity.

These, in short, was the main reasons why the Grand Union were always in need of navvies and why such a boy as Cicely Maturin was pretending to be should have been in fear of their life, or at least, seeking a change of employment quickly.

Barring a couple of near misses Cicely didn't feel worried or anxious about her work for the Grand Union, far from it. She wouldn't be with the company long and, with a fuller belly than Cicely was used, meant she could pray that her luck would hold long enough until she could put her plan into action.

It went something like this: Cicely would discover the movements of the naval ships through the local newspapers. Although a matter of national security the publication of pamphlets was commonplace in the locality of the docks of the ships anticipated and the demand from those who were interested in the traffic at the local docks (loved ones, debt collectors, jilted lovers). A few were always diverted to London and Cicely could then determine if any needed crew. By being aboard she could then ascertain the location of "Surprise" and make further plans to reach her.

But there was a down side. She needed money quickly if she were to get herself in a fit state for a naval captain to be interested in her skills aboard his ship. Those docking on the Thames were mainly those ships which had been diverted off course from Portsmouth and were yet to be engaged in warfare. As such they would have plenty of crew and so Cicely would have to look, and be prepared to act, her best in order to be taken on to mizzen.

Money for food and board to see her through till she had found employment; money to clothe her in loose-fitting garb, rather than the heavier clothing she had bought in Shrewsbury following her flight; money in case she needed to get across to France, or if she discovered "Surprise" was anchored in a particular port. Getting herself clean, too, after so many months living as a navvy.

She didn't regret her decision to try to make amends to Mrs Aubrey and Mrs Darwin but Cicely had to admit that the money she had taken from "The Mount" would have been more than useful. She did have another means of cash however. That, and some scraps of paper from Dr. Darwin's original copy of Zoonomia which she had written on the back of Stephen's old notes were the only things of value Cicely had on her person. She kept them close in her bindings not least so she would not be robbed of them and it was the other, her mother's silver locket which was her last, and only, means of raising it.

That was where the complications arose. It was made by Castellani, and as such was highly distinguishable. Cicely knew that it was worth about ten guineas, but that she would probably only be able to get ten shillings for it in the back street pubs that the navvies frequented. She would have to sell the locket only when she knew she would be able to board a ship, or at least be out of the vicinity of where she had sold it: at a starting price of ten shillings someone was bound to recognise its true worth and within days it would be in the hands of someone who knew about fine jewellery and eventually someone would start asking questions.

Could she have reached a ship without selling her mother's necklace? Cicely knew she could but it would take far longer. Would she do without it? That was another question. At times when she was feeling particularly low Cicely would hold the necklace and remember; not her mother, for she had died when Cicely was very young. She would remember how dear it had been to Edward, her dear brother.

But what was true in her heart was her love for Stephen. Cicely knew she could not bring her brother back from his watery grave, neither her mother, she reasoned. Neither, she believed, would care for her keeping the necklace if it meant she were to have an unhappy life otherwise.

The wind blew again and Cicely was roused from her thoughts. Around her the navvies began to form their shift-groups and she fell into line with five other men. They were heading for the chalk face, as they had done for the past week. Her work would finish at sundown and, with a bit of luck, Cicely would be able to look upon the necklace's engraved surface once more and remember her time aboard "Surprise"; of the wind in her hair; of her pair, James, who had been assigned to mirror her tasks; of Captain Aubrey, his generosity and commitment to the Navy; of being so close to her brother…and of course, falling in love with the ship's surgeon…

…it was expensive…it was valuable…but so was her love. What use was it as a formed trinket? She could travel across the continent if necessary: she had done it before. The decision came down to the best chance of being reunited with Dr. Maturin, and being as far away from her father and Wigg as she could.

She would be there again, Cicely knew, aboard "Surprise", with her husband. Of that she was determined.

88888888

The "Surprise" had departed Genova almost three weeks ago with the orders to meet with the aforenamed Acheron in Portsmouth. Here, Jack Aubrey intended to do more than just brief the captain, his former lieutenant, Tom Pullings, indeed: Aubrey's planned to welcome Tom aboard and, if time allowed, spend time indulging in their respective stories following their departure from the South Pacific.

Jack had been looking forward to meeting his equal, who he had recommended to the Admiralty to the rank of Captain and whose commission had surely been granted now upon their spoils of war. However, it was upon his arrival at Portsmouth harbour that he had received further word to make only the provision necessary and to sail towards Vlissingen, in Holland, and wait further.

Wait further. Aubrey had sighed when he had received that instruction. In the service you never knew how long the wait would be. It could be hours, or days, or even weeks and there was no mention whether he was to meet with the "Charlotte".

At least, Jack thought, he could make the ship ready and he had set about the crew making "Surprise" be in as good condition as possible. Vlissingen, he reasoned, was close to France and he suspected the Admiralty wouldn't wish one of their own ships to linger long by Britain's enemy, but Jack suspected he would be better at ease with the whole situation if he had his friend aboard, with whom he could talk, and in whom he could confide. He could only wonder where Stephen Maturin was now and what he might be doing.

And then, that morning, as they anchored in the western quay of Vlissingen harbour, mail from another frigate, the "Thorn" was exchanged between bo's'uns and distributed. Both the officers and the seamen alike were delighted; they had been away from loved ones for such a long time and it had disappointed them, Aubrey knew, that they had not had the opportunity for at least night ashore in Portsmouth.

The first was from his wife. Jack had saved the bulky letter until he had cleared his mind completely to read of the society and domestic news which his beloved Sophie always divulged to him in her exquisite hand. It had come as a shock, therefore, when the ragged appendix to the missive fell out from between the neat, crisp pages on which his wife had written. Aubrey had read it, before pacing around his cabin deep in thought.

Sophie Aubrey said that she had taken Cicely with her to visit her friend Susannah Darwin, that there had been a subsequent letter from her, which she had taken the liberty to enclose for him, but she had heard nothing since. Aubrey had then turned to the other paper which Sophie had folded inside her own letter. The beautiful script depicting his wife's name looked very much like that of his ex-mizzenlad and he unfolded it, holding it up to the light from the window before gazing past it and out into the harbour.

Now, Jack Aubrey sat in his chair, watching the bustle of the Dutch quay with his eye as he contemplated the consequences of the information he had received from Sophie. Even if he did know where Stephen was it would be nigh on impossible to find him with this news. That was, even if he wanted to. He knew his friend's work ashore was not only secret but lengthy; he could be anywhere on the continent by now…anywhere in the world, in fact.

Aubrey watched the crew of the "Thorn" go about the maintenance of their vessel before reaching round to his desk and pulling out the parchment note which his former surgeon had left him. Wickham. William Wickham. Jack knew that this person, whoever he was, would be able to field an urgent message for Maturin. He – Jack – needed only to mark the message "classified" and it would be delivered directly to Admiralty House. What could be more important than this?

Privately at least, Jack mused. Stephen and Cicely's marriage had been called into question by her father and, Jack noted, a Magistrate Wigg. Jack looked out of the window again. His authority had been brought into question, which was always a possibility with naval marriages - he had said as much to Maturin.

Where would she go, he wondered? Her brother Edward had committed suicide two years before. It had been his position aboard which had drawn Cicely to the Surprise in the first place. Cicely. Why did you go? _Where_ did you go?

He turned to his desk. Regardless of where Stephen was he needed to know. Pausing every so often to structure carefully appropriately-chosen words Jack Aubrey began to write but when none came he folded up his wife's letter and that of Cicely and put them into an envelope. Sealing it with the crest of "Surprise", Jack waited a few minutes before dipping his quill in the inkwell on his desk then wrote "Wickham – Classified" on the other side.

Aubrey got to his feet, intending to place the letter straight into the hands of Mr. Hollar to give to his opposite number aboard "Thorn". Before he got to the door to call his bo's'un, the captain of the Surprise remembered his other letter, the one which had accompanied the orders. The one directly from Admiralty House itself. Jack Aubrey sat back down, and opened both.

88888888

The public house was one which the navvies frequented regularly. Its situation, squeezed between a butchers shop and a bakery made for a less disreputable locale and Cicely had found herself accompanying the other Grand Union men as they spent their relatively copious wages on ale. Sadly, the outer appearance did not disguise the dark, grimy, oil-lamp-smoke-suffused interior. An ideal place, Cicely had concluded, for the sale of her locket, which would take her away from the canal and, with any luck, one step closer to the Navy and her Stephen.

She had seen similar trades being carried out between the navvies and other men who frequented the "Crown" – soldiers, shop-workers, ne'er-do-wells. It appeared that the landlady was involved at various stages of the transactions and Cicely had decided to approach her.

As usual, the smoke from the oil lamps blew into the street as one of the older navvies opened the door. Six of them, including Cicely, stepped over the threshold and looked for a suitable area where they could all sit together, mull over their lot and drink ale and liquor. Cicely, who abhorred alcohol, compromised by drinking ale, which she made last most of the evening, and which reinforced the façade that she was a young, weak adolescent who could not tolerate anything stronger.

The older navvies began to talk about the amount of chalk which had been shifted that week and the others debated how long it would be to cut the whole length, one, a man about her own age, estimated months but another, older, navvy proffered the figure of a year and a half.

"What's yer guessin'?" Over the rim of her ale-jug Cicely looked at the older of the navvies, one whose luck had clearly lasted longer than most, though only just. Peter Tregadon, a navvy from the West Country, gave her an engaging stare and she withdrew the jug from her lips. Any excuse not to drink, Cicely thought.

"Er," she began. "I don't know. Perhaps two years?" Both Peter and the younger man, Joe Brewer, who had come with the navvies from Stourport, laughed. As the rest of the men contributed their guesses Cicely's gaze was drawn towards the other group of men in the pub, a group of rather raggedly dressed soldiers, who were clearly enjoying their time there. A couple of other men, labourers by their dress, sat in corners, their manner far more reserved than that of the soldiers. And then there was the navvies: several drinks and a good old song because you never knew what tomorrow might bring.

"I 'eard the bosses plan to take us up to the North again." Tregadon, his age and experience coming to the fore as it usually did held the group in rapt anticipation as he engaged the navvies in tales of work. "Not that I wouldn't mind goin', though, but I'd miss the money…"

This group of men, on the canal work involving explosives were very much alike in their manner to the sailing crews she had met in her time. Perhaps, Cicely had mused on evenings in the alehouse before, it was because their work was tough and it held them together through their shared experience.

As Peter Tregadon's story about his time digging Cheshire's canals began to flow, Cicely began to search out the landlady who she had seen other customers approach in order to sell their belongings. As the story reached the point where Tregadon had met the Marquis of Bridgwater himself, she crept away, and over to the bar.

Other customers were being held vertical by it, some talking, some bragging. One man Cicely recognised as someone she had seen talking to the landlady before and she was sure he had given her a watch, or something of that kind.

"…and what'll we do when we get to Flanders?" The shout came loudly from the tables of carousing soldiers, holding their pewter tankards aloft and making merry amongst them. The shout was loud and sharp and Cicely nearly fell over across a man dressed in labourers attire. Apologising, Cicely made her way to the other side of the bar, nearer to the soldiers, nearer a door through which she had seen the landlady go ten or so minutes before and, glancing back to the navvies, who were clearly engrossed in the story Tregadon was still recounting, peered nervously towards it.

"Waitin' for Meg?" The voice came close to her ear and Cicely turned quickly to see a soldier, in rather shabby uniform, grinning at her. Before she could reply, he continued to leer and added, "I'm sure whatever you have to sell you'd get a better price for from me."

"No thank you," Cicely said firmly, and turned away from the soldier just as Meg the landlady reappeared. She looked Cicely up and down before smiling.

"What can I get yer?"

"Nothing to drink, thank you," Cicely said politely and she heard the floorboards creak next to her. The soldier was clearly not going to press his enquiries now.

"Summat to sell, then?" Meg looked along the line of customers, perusing the drinks before them as Cicely had watched her do before. Anticipating, Cicely concluded, an empty glass which was an opportunity for another sale. As Meg returned her glance to Cicely, she nodded hurriedly, before opening her palm. Inside sat her mother's locket, gleaming a little in the lamplight.

"It was my mother's," Cicely added, answering the landlady's unspoken question. That was true enough, of course, and Meg grinned toothily.

"Yer mother's." she repeated. "What're you drinkin'?" Cicely shook her head.

"Nothing, thank you." She looked back towards the table of navvies, and at her half-consumed ale. "I have one."

"And what do yer have in mind?" Meg inspected the locket with interest, and Cicely proffered her hand further forward, aware that other customers were moving around them. "It's a fine piece, and no mistake. Very fine."

"A guinea?" The landlady dropped the locket back into Cicely's palm and threw her head back, laughing. "I can give you four bob."

"But I'm sure it's worth at least a guinea," insisted Cicely, imploringly.

"Not here," Meg laughed, shaking her head. "Where did you say you got it?" Her last question was quite direct and she gave Cicely a glassy stare.

"It was my mother's. I, er…" Cicely swallowed. She knew the woman would probably require a convincing story to go with the value of the locket and she added, "…it's all I have of her. She died when I was very young."

"What's yer name, lad?" Meg's tone had softened again and she smiled at Cicely.

"Young. Robert Young."

"Listen, Robert," Meg continued, taking the locket back out of her hand. "I can give yer somethin' for it, but not as much as a guinea, even if it was dear to yer – "

" – whatever she offers, I'll give yer two bob more – " The soldier who had waylaid her as she had waited for Meg just before leaned between them and made a grab for the locket. Cicely withdrew her hand quickly and shot a look at him and then past him, towards where the navvies were – _had been_ – sitting...none of the half-dozen who she had accompanied to the alehouse were there.

"I was goin' to say five bob," said Meg, her tone firm. "An' I can give it to yer now…"

Five shillings. Just a quarter of what she knew she probably could have expected, but Cicely wasn't in the mood to hand around.

"So have I," insisted the soldier, leaning further towards Cicely, his breath foul with liquor. "And it is a _very pretty thing_..." Cicely took a step back as the soldier lunged towards her and she trod heavily on someone else.

"Oi, you!" Meg shouted at the soldier. "The lad wanted to sell to me…" But Cicely wasn't listening now and she pushed past the other solder who she had just trodden on.

"Robert!" yelled the landlady as Cicely began to head towards the door "Come 'ere! We 'aint finished yet!" Cicely could feel her heart in her mouth now as she flung the alehouse door almost off its hinges, the cold September air hitting her face as her feet met the uneven pavement.

She could hear quickening footsteps behind her and, resisting the urge to look behind her, Cicely headed in the direction of the canal. The men couldn't have got too far, she reasoned and she held the locket tighter as she quickened her pace as the hubbub behind her got louder and louder, with shouts above a growing commotion.

Turning a corner, Cicely stopped dead. In front of her was the soldier who had accosted her, with another man. She looked behind her quickly and saw that the rest of the soldiers, and a few of the other customers who had been in the alehouse with them, lingering together, waiting.

" – lad!"

" – 'e's 'ere!"

Looking side to side for a way out, Cicely saw a soldier emerge from group and move towards her.

"Robert Young!" he called. In panic, Cicely turned back to where the first soldier was. Take it, her inner voice screamed. Take it!

Raising her arm Cicely made to throw the locket to the soldier, hoping it would confuse and she could run away.

"Robert Young!" She heard her alias shouted this time and, in the hope that it was one of the navvies she turned back, catching her foot on the pavement. As she stumbled, the people surged around her and she felt a thump on the back of her head.

The upsurge in noise faded in Cicely's ears as all around her she succumbed to blackness.

88888888


	7. Immutability

The "Surprise" waited, like a drawn bow, poised for action. It had been a five days since the neighbouring ship in the Dutch port had sailed and now, recumbent as they were, Jack Aubrey was feeling the pinch of dissatisfaction that they were not able to spring into action.

The orders had come, indeed, and direct from Admiralty House, but they were not as Aubrey had expected. They were to remain in port, in Vlissingen, and await further instruction. It had been a blow to the Captain – Jack Aubrey thrived on action and exacting what was required using his array of finely honed skills. It did not suit his demeanour just to wait around.

The men were getting frustrated too, Aubrey sensed; as the finishing touches were being put to the ship more cross words were being said amongst the men; more breakages and fewer evenings with rousing sea-song filtering into his cabin. They had received but one mail exchange, almost three weeks before and had had little news from Britain. There was only so much idleness they would stand and, in the absence of further instructions Aubrey knew he would have to do something to placate them. He also knew that he must not let his frustration show.

Turning from the view of the now empty wharf Aubrey shook his head. Such contemplation not like him – he thrived on action and tactical thinking on his feet, exacting his orders in his own manner. There were things that were concerning him too and despite Hardy being a potentially good companion the man's manner had prevented Jack from confiding in him, not considering the man was doctoring for him only on a temporary basis.

On paper, he and his new surgeon should have had many things in common: they were dedicated to the naval service and patriotic. But that was where any similarity ended. Jack knew that the men on Victory, even the lowliest aboard were the high ranks in ordinary naval vessels: commissioned lieutenants aboard the latter were known to vie with one another for non-commissioned positions aboard the flagship. Such competition made the men better skilled, more efficient, something which Jack vaguely approved, but it also made for a self-important, win-at-all-costs attitude amongst men, and killed any kind of comradeship and goodwill, something which Aubrey believed was essential to bind his men together.

At times, Aubrey found himself feeling grateful that the doctor had taken to his cabin. He had tried to get along with Hardy, but he found him cold and disdainful with a superior air. On the occasions his new surgeon had deigned to join Aubrey, he had made snooty comments about the inferiority of the wine that Jack had on offer and commented on the unfashionable walnut Queen Anne chair in which his predecessor had so often rested.

Now, with such a lull in action Thomas Hardy had barely been out of his cabin, save to bring Jack the remainder of Dr. Maturin's belongings. What had the man in his possession that he required the meagre space that some books and journals, a scientific instrument and a blue dress were occupying? The belongings were now residing in the corner of Aubrey's cabin. The doctor could not have taken them with him – his work now would clearly require him to be swift of foot and light of possession – so Jack Aubrey was conscious to mind his belongings until Dr. Maturin returned.

Despite himself, Aubrey had found his long evenings broken by reading a little of his friend's work. Some of it was beyond him, written for a specific audience, namely the Royal Society. But the richness with which the papers had been prepared showed how much Maturin desired the recognition of his peers, and, ultimately, membership.

He had said that to Jack before, during a post-prandial contemplation, or before a fiddling. But it wasn't until he had seen it written down that Aubrey really understood, recognising the sheer passion burning in its pages, written by a man so dedicated to the natural world, and recording its minutiae in such faithful detail – he recognised himself and his own devotion to the service within his friend's writings.

And then there was the half-written letter to Cicely. Aubrey had read a few sentences before he realised what it was, and returned it.

Cicely. What have you done?

It was a question which had invaded his mind all too often since his letter from Sophie. He had replied almost immediately to his wife once he had received her distressful correspondence. The letter enclosed with hers was undoubtedly from Cicely, and it seemed much worse coming from her hand directly. Sophie was worried, that was for certain, but she had coped with the situation in her own, gracious manner. Much as he should now be annoyed with his former mizzenlad for her treatment of his hospitality so, his wife had made it seem better, and, by her distant influence, his potential exasperation had yielded to concern: she had been, in a manner of speaking, one of his men.

Aside from the worry she had clearly caused Sophie, Jack knew that he would have to tell Maturin the news. The doctor had given Jack the name of his superior whom he should write, should he hear from Cicely. That his wife had absconded and her location was unknown, Aubrey concluded, one he knew the doctor should indeed know. But he knew that, in his stead of spy, it was news he would be without, especially considering its grave nature. He remembered the weight of concern on his friend's shoulders the night before he departed the ship. Clearly the work he was to undertake was perilous, but then – who was he to withhold such information?

Looking at the letter he had written to his friend he considered its burden before gazing back at the shallow waves in their regular advances towards the harbour. A knock caused Aubrey to turn sharply and he rapidly buried his idle mindfulness.

"Hm," he coughed, and stood straight. "Enter." On eyeing the owner of the knock, he added, "good morning, Blakeney."

Before him, his acting first-lieutenant stood, a downcast expression on his face. He was not the only one feeling the effects of his former doctor's absence and he knew that Will Blakeney had probably had had some contact with the Hardy.

"Is it, sir," replied Blakeney. Clearly the atmosphere aboard Surprise had permeated even the most robustly optimistic of his men.

"And what is it I can help you with?" Jack circumnavigated his desk and stood before his ex-midshipman: since promoting his previous first lieutenant to Captain aboard Acheron, Aubrey merely waited for the formality that was Tom Pullings visiting Admiralty House for the rank to be officially conferred. During wartime such technicalities were often waived, but, in the true spirit of the navy until the papers were officially read before all of the Surprise's men by Aubrey, Will Blakeney still considered himself to be a midshipman.

Another casualty of the correspondence drought, Jack reflected, in a similar fashion to his own unfulfilled professional and social contact with Captain Pullings had he met the former Acheron expected. He knew that there would be a good reason why the Surprise was being retained, of course, and they must play their part nevertheless. However the knowledge of this did nothing to quell their collective anticipation.

When Aubrey realised Blakeney had said nothing he smiled and patted the young man reassuringly on the arm. Will Blakeney smiled back quickly.

"Tell me, why is it that you think that we are here?" Aubrey took a few steps back and leaned, un-captain-like against his desk. As he expected, Will's face clouded as he struggled to come up with an answer. Very well trained, if he did say so himself, Jack concluded: it was quite alien to him to consider why orders were being given. For the lad to progress into captaincy and beyond it would be a vital skill to master.

"Do you recall the celebratory dinner we held for Dr. Maturin before he departed us?" Will Blakeney's face fell immediately at the mention of their mutual friend and Jack realised that this was likely to be the reason the lad had made his way to Aubrey's cabin.

"Yes, sir," Blakeney replied. "It was a lovely dinner, sir. I'm sure the doctor appreciated it."

"Specifically," Aubrey continued, "the story with which he regaled us. About the lizard in the desert? Please sit." Jack gestured towards his Queen Anne chair, inviting his first lieutenant to make himself more comfortable. After a moment, Will Blakeney sat down, brushing his feet against the cabriole legs. After a minute or so of consideration he continued.

"Yes sir, I do remember." A pause as Blakeney thought again, seemingly in order to try to remember the evening accurately. "He talked about the lizards of the family "Gekkonidae" that live in dry, hot climates. He said that the lizards of this family can change colour, and wait for many hours, even days for their prey. They get covered in dust and dirt, while they wait, but they never more." Blakeney looked earnestly at Aubrey, still casually leaning against his desk.

"Well, that is not at all like us, wouldn't you agree? The crew have cleaned our ship from topsail to keel." He stood up, and made his way round to the other side of his desk, taking a moment to peer through the window before taking in Blakeney again.

"But we are waiting, sir," Will replied, with a small smile. "Just like the lizards. We're a clean lizard, waiting for our moment."

"Precisely, acting-lieutenant," nodded Jack Aubrey. "We wait for our orders, like the lizards wait for our prey. Now that you understand, you are to explain this to the men." Smile faded to uncertainty. Jack realised that now was probably not the time to rib the lad.

"Do you think they will understand, Blakeney?" Will shook his head.

"Not like we do, sir. They probably won't understand why we have to wait."

"In that case, I have decided to set a competition." Aubrey leaned forward and opened his thin desk drawer. From it, Will Blakeney watched as Jack placed upon the green leather desk covering an intricately carved Meershaum pipe.

"It's beautiful, sir," Will replied. Jack peered forward and Jack picked it up and, walking over to the lad, offering it to him. Will opened his hand slowly and Aubrey placed it on his palm.

"I propose some days of sport," Jack continued, watching Blakeney examine the pipe, "climbing the rigging…loading the cannon…paces…driving the tiller…and this shall be the prize. Do you think the men will receive this favourably?"

"Oh yes, sir," replied Will, holding onto the pipe for a few seconds' more examination as Jack made to take it from him. "They should be most proud to be its owner."

An hour later, having despatched Blakeney to announce the news of impending games to the men, and Jack Aubrey examined the letter he had now written to his previous doctor, addressed, as instructed, to William Wickham. It wasn't a letter he had relished composing and had let the enclosed letter from Cicely sent to his wife explain the situation more clearly. It would be a blow to his friend once he read it, Jack knew – he knew it would be in his situation – but he knew he couldn't in all faith withhold the information from Stephen either.

As he went towards the door of his cabin, to officially begin the Surprise's games, he cast an eye on the other letter, the one to Sophie. It always made him happy when he wrote to his wife and, despite several sombre paragraphs, this was no different. He had thanked her for her conscientiousness in alerting to him her current domestic situation with regard to Mrs Maturin and, as usual, sent her his love.

Making his way up to the quarterdeck, he saw the men standing in squads with their officers, as instructed, waiting patiently, but eagerly. Three day of competition and games, Jack mused. And after then? He wondered what he would do in the absence of further orders. Surely someone must have realised that, despite their loyalty, he could have an unruly mob on his hands by now: mutinies had happened over much less.

"Men of the Surprise," Jack began as he beheld his crew, looking over them approvingly. Clearly the idea of the competition had been considered favourably by the salts – they had taken a noticeable care in their appearance. Even Hardy had been suitably impressed by the idea to show his face, standing a few feet from Aubrey next to Blakeney, his ruddy complexion bending into an approving smile.

"Men of the Surprise." Jack Aubrey's voice reverberated around the deck as the salts and his officers beheld him silently. "Today is the first, the first, I hope, of many such competitions. So as every man here knows who is the fastest…the most swift…the strongest…the fleetest. All men, whether rank or no, may stand shoulder to shoulder."

A murmur of agreement rippled around the main deck as the men took in his words, a low susurration feeding its way through the early autumn air. Both the officers and salts alike were trying to pay attention to their Captain as well as exchange words of excited anticipation between one another. The noise settled to silence when they became aware that Aubrey was ready to address them again.

"All duties are to be Naval Lowest for the next three days," Aubrey continued, noting the delight even this small announcement had on his crew. "For such an auspicious occasion, it is only fitting there should be a prize – " Stepping a little further towards the balustrade, holding aloft the valuable pipe. The salts craned upwards and his officers across, taking in the quality carving of the bowl and the elegant stem, imagining as one the pride of acquiring it for themselves.

"So, without further ado, I hereby begin the Games of the HMS Surprise!"

"Three cheers for the captain!" came a lone cry from the men below him. "Hip-hip – "

" – huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!"

Retreating to the rear of the quarterdeck, Aubrey watched as his officers organised the men – of which there were nearly all who had come forward to compete – into groups. Many would be eliminated that day and those who qualified for tomorrow would provide excellent sport for the many. He scanned the proceedings before him, noting Hardy's conspicuous absence again. Would nothing engage the man, and allow him to at least show a modicum of interest in the ship?

Aubrey fought to prevent imaginings of his friend were he in Hardy's stead and looked past the forecastle, into the distance. A small boat was docking at the otherwise empty quay there at Vlissingen. Withdrawing his small telescope he noted the Union Flag on its top-mast. He continued to watch as a figure disembarked, made its way along the cluttered wharf and towards the Surprise.

He watched Killick pipe the man aboard – mail had arrived and his steward exchanged with his counterpart letters from Surprise with that for the crew. Immediately, the organisation of the games were temporarily halt as Killick distributed the letters, and a couple of parcels to the men and officers (it would take only the sinking of a ship for the men not to pause in their business to receive communication from their loved ones and, probably, debtors). Moments later, he approached with one for Aubrey.

Orders, Jack noted. At last.

"Permission to pause a-moments?" Preserved Killick looked earnestly at Jack. As Captain's steward technically he was never off duty and had to seek permission for any task that was not directly related to his job.

"Certainly, Killick. I do hope Mary fares well." Aubrey did not wait for a reply as Killick saluted and paced down the steps and back to the main deck.

Breaking open Admiralty House's official seal, Jack Aubrey scanned the military directive and felt his face betray his disillusionment as he read it over three times. The Surprise was to remain berthed at Vlissingen until further orders arrived. They were going nowhere.

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	8. All Change

Leaving the Place du Carrousel behind him as the September sun hung overhead Stephen Maturin reached the Rue Saint Honore. The mail coach had arrived in the eastern St. Antoine district of Paris in the early hours of the morning and, having refreshed in a hotel in the outskirts of the city, he had made his way to his meeting with William Wickham.

The salon in which he was to meet his superior was in the opposite direction to the termination of his transport across the continent and, having thoroughly paid the driver generously, he had deliberately sought to cross the more well-to-do areas of the city on his way to Lepelletier, one of the major strongholds of anti-revolutionaries and well-hidden amongst the back streets of this poorer Parisian suburb.

It had taken just the time that Wickham had calculated it would to pass through both Italy and Switzerland and he had easily found an internal mail coach to carry him to the country's capital. The journey had been the easy part; up until his arrival in France he had merely to act as a passenger, as was common with the well-off (his initial guise). It was having crossed the border where his difficulties – as anticipated – began in earnest and Maturin had been grateful that Wickham had organised for the Parisian newspapers, both Republican and anti-Napoleonic, to reach him regularly.

Stephen crossed the Rue with a little haste, blending in temporarily with the Parisians before making his way through a small passage and around a corner with an open plaza. It was here, well hidden in the area across the plaza, that aristocrats, the learned, those of religious persuasion and people against the Republic and Napoleon Bonaparte came across one another in erratic, disorganised drabs: some passing in the street; some buying and selling. Others sat in tea salons passing more than just the time of day.

"Good to see you, Doctor." It was in just this latter location that William Wickham clapped his hand on Stephen Maturin's shoulder. The salon's darkness, being one floor below street level, was illuminated by oil lamp. The light glinted in the spymaster's eyes as he greeted his man. Stephen exhaled, and extended a weary arm, looking around him cautiously.

The salon was not busy. Around them, in the darkness, the gentlemen's hats hung on pegs. Their owners were sitting at long communal tables strewn with papers and writing implements. Coffeepots were ranged at an open fire, with a hanging cauldron of boiling water over a fire, thus the fashion of traditional beverage-making.

"Relax Maturin," continued Wickham as he ushered the Doctor towards a table past the counter; he nodded towards the middle-aged man behind the bar who, seemingly understanding the silent request. "You are amongst allies here."

A couple of men sat in the corner opposite and seemed to be having an intense conversation. A taller man sat beyond them, alone, reading what Maturin had discerned as he had entered the salon to be an anti-Republican pamphlet – he could vaguely see the outline of the "Libertaire" insignia illuminated through the paper from the oil lamp behind it.

"Doctor Maturin, it has been a long time. How have you fared?" The fair-haired, boyish charms of the his superior had not faded in all those many years as a master spy for the British, Maturin noted – he still seemed to be the same personable, charismatic young man who he had met by the river in Orbe fifteen years before. Before the sweeping of Napoleon and his army through the Helvetic Republic on his way to Vienna. Wickham shook Maturin by the hand and Stephen wondered how it was that a man of a similar age and to whom he himself was only second in skill and experience in espionage could still look as youthful.

"I made it," Stephen replied, smiling wryly at Wickham. And in one piece too, but only just. It had been a near miss and it had taken the intervention of the soldier's colleague on the outskirts of the city for him to lose his concentration and allow the coach to Paris and all its passengers unhampered access to the capital. It had been his language, Stephen had reflected as he had eaten his complementary breakfast (a well-repaid favour from someone he had known countless years before). His French was perfect, but that had been the trouble.

"Too perfect, Maturin," echoed William Wickham, with a knowing look. "They nearly had you at Vincennes." He relaxed back into the curve of the high-backed chair, continuing to look at Stephen. "I am very surprised: I thought my best man – my man who eluded the French in the South Pacific – would have been the last to have made such a simple error."

Stephen suspected that he mentioned Maturin's own previous successes as a reminder to himself that there were as close to equal in terms of espionage ability. Not that Stephen cared: he did not have the commitment to the trade as Wickham did. Stephen merely used his skills, and advantageous position upon a warship to good effect, and to fund his scientific research.

"Isn't it you, William, who always said that victory is ever the purer when one is the quarry of the defeated?"

"Even so, Maturin, there is such a thing as being too close to the predator."

Carrying a pewter tray with two blue and white pottery jugs the man, presumably the owner of the salon, approached them. He appeared to lag in his gait and Stephen noticed him catch Wickham's eye. Wickham nodded and the man neared, glancing at Stephen momentarily before setting the tray on the unelaborate wooden table between them and returning with perhaps a little more haste than strictly necessary. The jugs, inferior copies of Dutch ones they were obviously meant to emulate, contained coffee. The smell wafted over their rim and invaded Maturin's senses. Clearly even the rebellious had, in their choice of drink, standards to uphold.

Taking the handle of the nearer mug Wickham lifted it to his lips, pausing to engross his own olfactory system. Then he lowered it back to the tray and looked suddenly at Stephen, his pale blue eyes shimmering in the dull light.

"Are you prepared?"

Stephen said nothing and, as he had anticipated, Wickham was reaching into the inside pocket of his coat. He extended his arm and Stephen raised his to meet his hand. Into it, Wickham placed a strip of black linen cloth. There it was: a spymaster's instruction to his employee; a code in colour and type. Black…white…blue…silk…linen…cotton...all of them had their own specific meaning. And, then and there, in an anti-republican tea salon, it was exactly as Stephen Maturin had suspected.

"Indeed." Maturin closed his hand around it. Wickham withdrew his hand and picked up his coffee again by the jug handle.

"This is a new strategy; we have never tried it before."

"And Hamilton approves?" asked Maturin, doubt in his voice.

"You know the Old Jug would only have interfered." William Wickham took a sip of the coffee, wondering whether it was dishonourable to drink coffee from the French East Indies, even if its superior taste blinded one to its potentially seditious origins.

"You mean you haven't told him," Maturin nodded knowingly as he too took up his drink.

"With this, Doctor, we can prevent an invasion or, at the very least, delay it for a considerable amount of time."

"An invasion of Britain by the French?" retorted Maturin. "I question who would even notice the difference!"

"I know you're a Feinian, Maturin, which is all very fine, but why do you spy for us when you clearly loathe the country so much?"

"I neither loathe it nor love it," he replied. "I spy for the money, and because I'm good at it."

"You are," conceded Wickham. "You outfoxed the French in the South Pacific." A look passed between him and Maturin and William knew that they both were aware that his previous comment was as much a reminder to himself of Maturin's skill as to the Doctor himself. "At least you don't need to perfect your English," he added drily.

"And you've never let Hamilton forget it" Maturin replied, replacing his now-empty coffee-jug back onto the pewter tray. Wickham allowed the comment its silent acceptance and continued.

"But I think you've allowed your cover to slip."

"Indeed?" Stephen raised his eyebrows, clearly unaware about what Wickham was talking.

"You've caused quite a stir." William Wickham sipped his coffee and held the jug in his hands.

Silence.

"You married a mizzenlad, Maturin?" Wickham questioned, and watched realisation cross the doctor's face.

"A woman," corrected Maturin, the veil of ignorance falling like a veil from his face.

"Yes," agreed Wickham. "Cicely Hollum. Married under the sail, by Captain Jack Aubrey of His Majesty's Ship Surprise."

Maturin eyed Wickham as the unspoken question in his eyes sought out the connection. He looked away once it had fallen into place and he inhaled sharply.

"Aubrey" Yes, of course!"

"It is as you suspect," clarified Wickham, raising his head and shaking it briefly in the direction of the salon owner, clearly indicating no more coffee was required.

"Recorded in the ship's log. I even saw him dispatch it to Admiralty House myself!" Wickham could hear the exasperation in Maturin's voice.

"It is of little consequence," concluded Wickham. "Professionally, I mean. I am sure it is of significance to yourself."

"Her fate was dire and she needed my help. But I grew to love her very swiftly," Maturin added, a contemplative expression on his face. "Cicely is remarkable." Indeed she is, concurred Wickham wordlessly.

"It is imperative that the subsequent proceedings are successful." Maturin nodded.

"I understand."

"You are prepared." It wasn't a question. Wickham had asked Maturin the same question less than twenty minutes before.

"I meet Isard within the hour." Isard, thought Wickham. One of Fouche's own. He watched Maturin get to his feet and did the same himself. Extending a hand, the master and his man shook hands.

"I wish you the best of luck, old friend." Wickham smiled as Maturin nodded in agreement.

"And you. I will be exactly where you need me to be within the month."

As Maturin made his way back up the wooden stairs and back to Parisian street level Wickham noticed as he closed his hand momentarily over what Wickham knew to be the black linen strip. Maturin knew what he needed to do – both men were aware. The man was to board Victory, as arranged, and in addition to his surgical skills in support of the fighting men, become close to the Lord Admiral –

Three minutes later and Wickham too was ascending the stairs having settled the bill with the salon owner. The door onto the street had just reverberated closed as he reached it and Wickham put his hand on the knob and lifted the latch, pulling the door open towards him. The wide cobblestones underfoot gave way to the flatter, less raised stones of the plaza that Maturin was now crossing.

From the corner of the street-level salon he watched the Doctor continue north in the direction of the Capuchins where Isard would now be expecting him. Continuing around the plaza close to the buildings, continuing to watch Maturin until the glint of a pistol caught his eye opposite him. Instinctively he reached towards his hip where Wickham's own was secreted and backed around a corner.

He watched as the spy took aim, training the barrel of the pistol on Maturin and guiding it in an arc as the doctor walked. Continuing to observe, Wickham raised his own to face level and took aim.

Two shots rang out. A brief pause, then hurrying feet. The shout from a bystander, then another pause. A woman screamed, then more footsteps. More people gathered around the fallen body.

Backing around the corner now Wickham lowered his pistol, its own barrel hot from use. It had worked. The plan had unfolded, just as expected. What else had the spy expected? One too many mistakes, his last being there in the plaza. That made him a risk that the spymaster could no longer afford.

Wickham put away his pistol, turning his back on the plaza. Besides, Maturin knew what he was taking on, he reasoned.

But…nevertheless…

…Wickham always found it distasteful that, by his own hand, he had to lose a man.


	9. About Face

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Cicely dreamed. It was one that Cicely recognised. On some of her darker days, when all hope seemed lost she would relive it in her waking mind as her conscience tortured her, and she knew the narrative well. Her and Stephen. She had found him…they were together and it was several years hence.

They were in a land which had been little explored by anyone. Stephen was on commission from the Royal Society to further the understanding of the country, its fauna and flora with the objective of writing a comprehensive report. With them was their son, who Cicely had lost nearly two years ago aboard the Surprise. The boy, the image of Dr. Maturin, was about eight or nine, and his primary aim in life was to be exactly like his father in both deed and demeanour.

Cicely had decided to go with them both that morning. Covering her head with a large shawl and tying it firmly around her body she took hold of the traps and nets, following in her husband's footsteps – literally – as Stephen and their son made their way across poor grass and onto the foreshore, laughing and chatting together as they went.

Both of them got further and further away as Cicely followed, towards the bright morning sun and, as she tried to call out to them both to slow down for the nets and traps she was carrying were weighing her down and preventing her from moving. Then, as Stephen and their son got to the shoreline Cicely felt herself being pulled away from them. She tried to call out but she couldn't. Then, just as they seemed too far away to hear her, their son and Stephen began to wave…

Cicely felt her stomach lurch as a knot of sadness tightened in her stomach…this was common, she had felt this many mornings before. It would be fine once she had woken fully, had breakfasted with the navvies on dark grey bread and boiled water and walked the three miles with them to the canal basin and their day's work.

But…something was different. It wasn't dawn: light was not spilling through the shuttered windows of building where the men lived. Indeed, she was not even in their building, unless the ceiling had been replaced with something much more dynamic.

No, this was not their building – Cicely was certain. How was it that she was here – wherever here was – that she could feel fresh air on her skin and the ground beneath her? Cicely felt herself sighing and though the knot in her stomach ebbed and was replaced by a feeling of sadness and bewilderment. A breeze passed by her again and Cicely's ear picked up voices nearby but they were too indistinct to make out.

She looked at the light around her: it was evening. Long shadows were cast outside wherever it was she was and Cicely looked about her trying to deduce her situation. She had little recollection of what had happened beforehand, but she felt her heart race as some memories began to invade her mind…

…the alehouse where she had been with the navvies…

…drinking a little ale…it was against her better judgement but she had to act as a navvie would…she had not had nearly enough to make her forget, of this Cicely was sure…

Cicely leaned back and looked heavenwards, or at least where the heavens would be if the canvas above her were not in the way and pushed her hand against her head. Her headache would certainly suggest she could have drunk too much and Cicely closed her eyes again, tying to make sense of everything.

Her hand drifted to her shoulder as a dull ache radiated around her scapula. She remembered her mother's locket…and trying to sell it to Meg the landlady…Cicely's hand moved towards her neck and then her pocket: the locket, it was gone! Suddenly the events of the previous evening pieced themselves back together hazily in her mind and she felt in the inside of her jerkin. Her money too. Gone!

Too tired to fully take it all in Cicely closed her eyes again. Where was she? Why did she feel so tired?

"…I go tomorrow, Harris. Munro. I'm short enough on men…"

Silence, followed by the crunching of foot on hard ground. Cicely held her breath and listened.

"…what if he 'aint come round, we can't just leave him…"

"…the navvy companies always gives us money for 'em, anyways…"

Opening her eyes, Cicely exhaled and she began to sit up again, rubbing her eyes. Suddenly, she felt a breeze near her shoulder and realised that someone had just entered…wherever it was she was…? Cicely turned, which was painful, and looked sharply towards where the canvas flaps of the tent moved and she watched as a soldier looked towards her.

She shrunk back as the soldier made towards her as the events of the alehouse flashed before her eyes – was this the same man? – and the soldier smiled towards her. He wasn't, but Cicely wasn't about to drop her guard. She watched as the man looked over his shoulder. Cicely drew her knees up to her stomach and huddled back towards the rear of the tent as the soldier shouted, "she's awake."

She? The dull pain now radiated out from the epicentre of her shoulder and up her neck as Cicely sought an exit but, before she could get very far another solder, one of rank, appeared head and shoulders next to the first.

"Hello, lass." Cicely looked between the men, backing as far away from them as she could now. How could they know her secret? Where was she? Were these soldiers something to do with the men in the alehouse? She felt about her person for her bindings…they were as she had tied them…how did they know her true gender?

"Don't look so scared. If it hadn't been for Harris here, you might well have been face up in the Thames." The officer, tall, grubby blonde hair and angled features, grinned widely as he looked her up and down in a most un-officer-like manner. The first soldier wasn't the one who had tried to accost her in the alehouse, Cicely figured. He was much shorter, with darker hair – this soldier was fair haired and had thicker-set features.

"Wh…wh…?" Cicely tried to reply but the words she wanted to say wouldn't form themselves.

"Don't worry, lass," the Major added, "nothing's become o' thee: I made sure o' that me-sen." He looked across at the first soldier, who nodded at the officer. "Harris here, has been tellin' me o' you, Miss Hollum. Or should I say, Mrs Maturin?"

"I recognised you in the alehouse," Harris explained. Cicely fixed him with a questioning stare, trying not to let the fear coursing through her body show on her face, "when you said you name was Robert Young." Inching further into the tent the soldier who the officer had called Harris smiled towards her.

"How do you know who I am?" Cicely could feel that her fear had made its way to her vocal cords. "Who are you? Where am I?" Swallowing a few times, her heart racing and the adrenaline building around her lower back, Cicely added, "what happened?"

"You've had a bang on the head," replied the Major. "Here." He proffered a woollen blanket. "This is my tent, lass. You are welcome to its use. Please allow Harris here to fetch you what you need." Nodding stiffly, the Major edged out of his tent and left and Harris smiled to Cicely.

"I could ask you the same thing. The last time I saw you, the doctor had convinced you not to board the Acheron. I was just in front of you." Cicely squinted nervously. In the lantern-light, she still could not take in the man's features fully.

"I sailed under Captain Aubrey, on the Surprise," Harris added. "When Captain Pullings commandeered the Acheron I went with him. You used to knock into my hammock when you came down to see James Fillings."

In the half-light Cicely squinted, trying to discern familiarity in the man's face, before shaking her head, defeated. If he was who he said he was, it didn't matter at the moment. He knew she was _she_ and, at this moment in time, she was safe. Or rather, she was not being pursued out of an alehouse for the sake of a silver locket, which was now lost in any case.

"Here." From behind the canvas flap Harris produced a pewter plate on which sat a large piece of bread. "Some ale too. Look, I know you don't drink strong drink," he added, noticing Cicely's disdainful look, "but the water round here is foul. It's all we can trust until we get moving again."

Cicely held out her hands and took the food gratefully, flinching as the pain in her shoulder flared around her shoulder and upper arm. She was hungry; that was certain. Whatever was going on she could think about it with a full stomach.

"Thank you," she added, smiling a little.

"When you're ready, I'll get the regiment's medical officer to take a look." Harris nodded towards Cicely and smiled in return. "Major Blunt has instructed me to keep you safe. This is his tent, you see. I'm honoured," he added, smiling again.

Cicely stared at Harris again as she made short work of the bread, contemplating her situation. If she were with an army regiment, and if their Major knew who she was, then it was likely he would hand her back to the authorities. But…something felt different. Perhaps it was the Major's manner: his straightforward turn of speech and his dialect. Most men in his position went to great lengths to alter their speech to match that of the aristocracy but not, it seemed, Major Blunt.

Putting down the plate, Cicely swigged the ill-tasting ale, feeling the potent fluid wash down her throat and into her stomach. She sighed. The pain in her head was dulling a little and she felt a little more relaxed, but only a little.

She glanced at Harris a couple of times; she _did _recognise him a little. He was one of the sailors who had not terrorised both her and James Fillings over their food ration; indeed, he had pleaded for clemency for her crime of assaulting Nagel when he had voiced the common opinion that her brother, Edward Hollum, was better off dead and at the bottom of the ocean, rather than bringing bad fortune on the Surprise and the souls aboard. At length, Harris smiled at her again, taking the plate and the now-empty tankard from next to her.

"May I ask, Mrs Maturin, how you came to be in a tavern in London in the company of navigationals?" Harris's question hung in the air between them. It was _the_ question, wasn't it, thought Cicely. The one which both he, for the sake of curiosity, and the Major clearly wanted to know.

"Before I answer – " Cicely searched for the man's Christian name, " – Michael…?"

" – Matthew," Harris acknowledged.

" – Matthew." Cicely inhaled deeply. "Is the Major intending to call for a magistrate, because if he is, I have to leave. Now. Tonight."

"But you're injured, Mrs Maturin," Matthew Harris replied urgently, leaning towards her.

" – Cicely – "

" – Cicely..." Harris nodded in acknowledgement, "…you can't be going anywhere. Look, I don't know," he added, circumventing Cicely's anticipated interjection. "The Major's fair; he'll give you a hearing. What is it you've done?"

And so, despite herself, Cicely told Harris briefly of her time in England; of Captain Aubrey allowing her to live with his wife Litten Hall, and that her father's intended husband for her finding out where she was and following her all the way to Shrewsbury. She told him of her flight, and enlisting first into the Shropshire Union canal company and then signing up with the Grand Union. The latter, Cicely added, would be another authority to which she could be handed; those who deserted the canal companies fared little better than those who deserted the army.

"And what brought you to the tavern?" Harris, who had listened with silent interest to her incredible tale, prompted her to relive the last few hours that she remembered.

"I went with the navvies to the alehouse. I knew that Meg buys things." Cicely shifted in sitting position and reached for the grey blanket that the Major had given to her. "I knew I couldn't stay much longer working in the basin if I were to get across to France, or Flanders and, well, the locket is…_was_…worth something."

"Yes, I saw you talking to Meg," confirmed Harris. "I saw Swanwick harassing you too."

"He chased me outside," Cicely added.

"Yes," agreed Harris. "And he hit you. He stole your money and the locket too. He would have got away with it had it not been for the crowd. Drunk to the back teeth, he were. Not that he'll be able to get into that state again."

As Cicely frowned uncomprehendingly Harris reached into his pocket and pulled out something which he held out towards Cicely. She put her hand out and Harris let go, allowing her mother's silver locket to fall into it. Cicely stared back at Harris until finally the soldier added the missing pieces.

"Your money ended up all over the street." Harris leaned back and exhaled quickly. "The crowd helped themselves; none of us could get that back. But Swanwick had pocketed your locket and was making his way back to camp when Major Blunt caught up with him." Harris looked out through the tent door before back to Cicely. "Swinging by his neck, he was, before the sun had a chance to come up." As Cicely continued to stare at him, Harris added, "Major Blunt comes down hard on thieves. Says it disgraces every single soldier if one of us steals. Says that it helps the enemy."

Looking down at her hand again, Cicely closed her fingers around the locket and a spark of hope appeared in her mind, not least because now she might be able to get aboard a naval ship now; Cicely also knew that she could trust Harris, at least in part.

"Thank you," she replied, rubbing her head and then her shoulder with her other hand. "For everything."

"Mrs Maturin, there's no need to thank me," Harris replied, shaking his head. "I only recognised your name. It wasn't just me who decided to bring you back here; the other men, the soldiers, thought that we should at least treat you. None of them know of your secret, though," he added, noticing the look of panic on her face.

Silence reigned again as Cicely put the locket round her neck once more. After a time, she looked back to Harris.

"What about you, Matthew? How is it that you are now in the army? I would have thought Pullings would be an exceptional captain."

"That he was," replied Harris, nodding in agreement. "But…don't you know…? The Acheron was wrecked just before she got to Portsmouth. Just off the Channel Islands. Many men were lost, including that of the Captain. We swam towards an island, Les Erchons, in the Channel. I clung to the rock for five days until a passing schooner rescued me.

"I know of some others who survived," Harris continued, "…Captain Pullings…Beecher…Fillings…but only a dozen or so of us. The former captain, the French Captain, had disguised himself as the surgeon. Captain Pullings had intended to hand him over to the military authorities but he, and the other few survivors of our battle, had mutinied, scuppered "Acheron"…" Harris shook his head as his voice trailed off.

"How terrible," echoed Cicely, feeling a pang of emotion in her stomach. "All those men…" Those men she knew, dead now in the Channel…all those souls…

"Gorle survived too; he encouraged me to join the North Buck'm company, our company." continued Harris, putting down his rifle. "When we got to Portsmouth he enlisted straight away. He's since transferred to another regiment now. I thought I'd try my luck too..."

…Harris liked it well enough. As Cicely drew the blanket around her, feeling her eyes grow heavy with fatigue she listened to her former seafaring colleague. The surviving French crew of the original Acheron who had been rescued had become Anglicised, had sworn allegiance to King George and, with equal vehemence to fight to the death to defeat Bonaparte. They were ignorant sailors, explained Harris, grateful of their bed and board and he himself had taken the opportunity for an increase in pay and status by joining Blunt's company…

Cicely closed her eyes as Harris's voice trailed off. Her head was feeling dense now, fuzzy but with the absence of pain which the ale she had drunk earlier had taken from her. She lay down as the darkness enveloped her.

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The proto-light of early autumn dawn was the next thing Cicely remembered. Casting a dull eye around her in the half-light she caught sight of Harris, sitting where he had been when she had succumbed to slumber. He seemed to be waiting for her to wake for, when Cicely sat up, rubbing her eyes he smiled in her direction and cleared his throat.

"The Major wants to talk to you," he said. Muzzily, Cicely rubbed her eyes, and rubbed her head again. The pain seemed to have gone, and had dulled in her shoulder, but the anxiety which she had felt about being in an army camp, with no money and little idea as to what she would do now was ever potent in her mind.

"Here." Harris handed Cicely a pewter plate again, containing more food. "And some ale?"

Cicely shook her head. Perhaps she would risk the water later, she thought to herself as she ate the hard, dark bread and Cicely contemplated what Blunt would have to say to her. For her own sake now she would have to make a good case to him.

"Harris."

Cicely put down her now-empty plate and the soldier yielded his silent sentry position to his superior who had uttered Matthew's name, slipping between the tent flaps as Major Blunt filled the void between her and outside.

"I trust yer slept well, lass." Cicely made to get to her feet as the officer stepped into the tent, but Blunt crouched down. Not as well-spoken as Harris, Cicely concluded. He had a Northern, possibly Yorkshire accent which he made no attempt to conceal as other men in his position would.

"Rest, lass," he added, before sitting in Harris's former spot. Un-tensing, Cicely sat back down, and pulled the thick blanket back round her. She didn't want to have to talk about the situation now; she was tired; she ached. But it seemed unavoidable as the tall man before her, with presence as prominent as the white stripes on the shoulders of his green jacket, held her with a steely stare. Cicely knew she would have to step up if she were to come out of the imminent discourse with the officer with something in her favour.

"You put me in summat of a dilemma, Miss." Blunt shifted but continued to hold Cicely's gaze and his intense stare made Cicely feel as if he was weighing her up, testing her by her reactions. "As I understand it, you are a married woman, who worked on Harris's ship; that you were in the company of the ship's captain's wife in England, and you ran off, and dressed yourself as up as a boy." Cicely found herself nodding; it wasn't the first time that she had, as Robert Young, induced a dilemma in a military man and this situation clearly had jarred with the Major.

"Yes. My husband is a doctor and a naturalist too. He is surgeon aboard the HMS Surprise as you rightly said." Talking control of the discussion Cicely tried to think of a way to form her words efficiently; as yet she didn't know Blunt's nature or character…he may well yet let her on way and she needn't challenge him.

"On one hand," continued the Major, taking control of the discussion, "as the Grand Union own yer skin, I could, indeed I should, turn you over to 'em – " so, he wasn't about to let her on her way then, Cicely realised, " – they pay good money, as my men know well. On the other, summon 't sheriff who'll keep you as ward until you can be released to yer father."

"What else do you know about me, Major Blunt?" With what other details has my former colleague furnished you?

"That you were disguised aboard his former ship; that you got wed to 't ship's doctor, that you hoodwinked yer captain; that your father hunts yer. Can you tell me now, lass, why I should not do just that?" Cicely felt herself becoming defensive under the scrutiny of the man. Just because he was her Harris's superior, did not mean she could trust him.

"My father is a selfish bully, Major. He was with a whore when my mother died; he drove my brother into the navy, a profession to which he was unsuited. I was locked away in my father's house for four years as he tried to coerce me into marriage to a local magistrate, for his own political and financial advantage. I took my destiny in my own hands, sir; I swore that no man would control me."

Cicely found herself returning the soldier's firmly held look, holding him with her own eyes and waiting for him to take in her firm and defiant words. Instead of rising to the challenge however, Major Blunt threw his head back and laughed.

"I do not come to you to tell you what to do, haughty lady. If I wanted to do that, we would not be sittin' 'ere." He breathed out heavily through his nose before adding, "but, if you was to leave now, where'd you go, lass? What'd you do?"

Cicely didn't answer immediately – it had been a long time since anyone had managed to annoy her as he was. She rubbed her head again, trying to keep alert and focused, and put her emotions aside. Perhaps a different approach would be more effective.

"I have to get out of England, sir, and find my husband's ship. Harris was kind enough to return my mother's locket to me – "

" – I must apologise on behalf of the soldier who caused your injuries, lass," Blunt interrupted. "'e won't do it again. You have no money, and yer couldn' sell that pretty trinket for the price of passage."

Cicely made to speak but her brain was being torn in all directions as it fought to prioritise her thoughts. What surfaced above the silent cacophony was: I could leave now, but I'll be found, I'm sure. Then the words came, unbidden, spilling out into the air between them, beseechingly.

"I could come with you, sir," she gabbled, getting quickly to her feet and leaning towards Blunt beseechingly. "Robert Young could be your private. He could live as one of your men…work as hard as them, harder if it would prove it to you. Make me one of your men, Major Blunt, and my work would be payment enough I am sure – "

"Impossible!" Blunt was on his feet, looking as if he had just been set on fire. He shook his head incredulously. He eyed Cicely as if waiting for her to admit she was joking. When she did not, Blunt shook his head again.

"Harris said you fought well, on 't ship," Blunt admitted, pacing a little before the tent entrance. "Bloody 'ell, you've just crossed 'alf the country without anyone findin' yer, and 'alfway across the world before that, 'n all…"

Silence reigned, as both conceded a temporary standoff.

"You need men; I heard you said so yourself."

"My men wouldn't abide it and I wouldn't mek 'em. Sailors are softer than my soldiers, lass."

Cicely shifted her weight, wishing she hadn't moved so quickly for the pain was as bad as it had been since waking the first time.

"Apart from Harris, who has to know? I've made as a boy for more years than I care to remember."

"Ar, and you're a married woman, too – "

" – so you see, Major, why you would wish to offer me safe passage to seek out my husband, to be in my rightful place by his side…"

Blunt didn't reply. He remained standing momentarily before moving quickly in Cicely's direction as she staggered backwards a little.

"Steady, lass," he instructed as Cicely allowed him to help her sit down, despite herself. "I'll tell you my decision in t' mornin'. You've the use of my tent what's left o' this night, o' course. Rest well, lass," he finished, before adding, "I am so sorry for what you've been brought to – "

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The sun woke Cicely for the third time in less than twelve hours. She felt sick as she had once again been torn away from her family during her unconscious slumber. The tent had taken on a dull grey colour and through the material she could see the rounded outlines of people outside, crunching on the ground beneath them, going about what Cicely supposed was their duties.

She looked around her again as the pain in her head caught up with her consciousness. Damn her feeble physical form; how she longed to be better…fitter…there had been a time she could beat the rest of them from deck to main topmast…not now, Cicely feared. Now, she had succumbed to frailty.

Cicely wondered whether she had convinced the Major to take her aboard as a soldier. She knew if she were in his position she probably wouldn't –

- she could hear voices…and listened as a crunching sound suggested people were near the tent…

"…if she's from a noble family, then someone's bound to offer a reward…" Cicely sought to focus on the words being spoken, trying to make them more understandable in her muzzy mind.

"…so you'd turn her over then?" Another voice, Irish…neither voices were Harris or Blunt and…they were talking about her! So much for keeping it between themselves! Cicely sat upright as conflicting thoughts fought for precedence in her brain. She had been right all along: they were planning to turn her in. So much for Matthew Harris's assertion that the Major would be fair!

She had to go – _now_. She had her locket, she could try to sell it again –

- a crunch near the tent entrance made her look up.

"I'll tell her," she heard Harris say.

"No, I will." Major Blunt's had spoke right outside his tent. More crunching –

– but that was behind her now as Cicely crawled between the groundsheet and the canvas – daylight ahead of her and boots in the distance going about their business –

The ground felt soft around her elbows and knees but the gap was narrow and she had to struggle. Quickly! She had to get out and away – Cicely struggled now as the pressure of her headache built behind her eyes as she sought to be away –

– however her efforts were ultimately in vain as she felt hands around her waist. The light before her receded as she was reintroduced to the interior of the Major's tent by its owner. Cicely squirmed and struggled, twisting onto her back and seeking liberty but the Major continued to hold onto her obstinately.

"Where're ye goin' lass?"

As Cicely tried again to get away he leered at her, as if delighting in her failed escape attempt. Cicely sagged and closed her eyes. It was no use. The Major was far stronger than she was so she could not overcome him by might. Perhaps, when her head was clearer he could be reasoned with.

"I don't think you're too well." Blunt had eased his hold, but not much. Cicely said nothing, but opened her eyes again, searching for a hook, a thread, something to hold onto which would give her a fighting chance to guard herself against being given back to her father, or the Grand Union from which she had apparently absconded.

"I'm well, Major," Cicely replied graciously. "And I am grateful for your hospitality."

"You're not well enough to leave us, lass. And you've no money." Cicely felt her nerve snap: she had begun with politeness but here, with the Major's tone indiscernible from mockery and being denied her autonomy, her resolve to use charm faltered.

"Be in no doubt, sir, that there is no point in delaying me now," warned Cicely hotly. "At the first opportunity, I will run."

"And where do you imagine you will go that I or my men cannot follow you?" Blunt let go his grip and she pushed herself back into a sitting position, looking at him disdainfully. "You get yourself into bother in an alehouse…you are sought by your father who you chose to run from – "

"I think I've explained – " began Cicely, but she was cut off by the Major.

" – you're a lady, or so your family name betrays. And yet you've used your position to flee, troubling people as you go. Have you never thought, lass, that you are not entitled to all such freedom you have demanded? Some females would be more than grateful being in your position, yet you choose to give yourself to poverty and hardship when you have no need to suffer so."

Cicely felt tears prick her eyes as the Major spoke. He was right, of course, to some extent. She had acted arrogantly. But, as Blunt stood there, speaking her own guilt aloud she wasn't about to acknowledge his accusations.

"In my father's home I would have more freedom were I to be the most pitiful slave in the whole world. Cicely pulled herself to her feet and ignoring the dizziness from her throbbing head which now returning again. "Had I not chosen to live my own life I would be dispatched to be the wife of a swine of a man. I'd wished to be with my brother, but I didn't get the chance to even talk to him as his sister before he took his life." Cicely looked him in the eye as he straightened to his full height. "Were I to be a man I doubt my actions would sit more comfortably with you, sir."

For a moment a silent standoff grew between Major Blunt and Mrs Maturin as both returned each other's stare.

"I know exactly what to do with you." Major Blunt broke the stalemate and strode towards Cicely and, as hope faded, replaced seamlessly with dread. "This is how it is going to be in _my_ camp and, lass, you will do what I say." Cicely made to say something, forcing her feet to keep her standing where she was when her whole core was screaming at her to flee. Blunt's mocking expression had returned and he reached down and held her wrists tightly.

"Major," Cicely managed, and then something she had hardly ever said in her life, so foreign it was to her nature.

Please help me.

She could not manage it, though the words formed at the back of her throat. She looked to the hard ground underfoot. She felt him loose her wrists.

"What'll you do, lass?" the Major continued, his tone a little softer than before, as he addressed the top of her head, his breath soft on her shorn hair. Cicely looked up resolutely into his pale blue eyes.

"Find out where the Surprise is," she replied boldly, breaking her gaze from him and looking around her. "I know that the flagship, the Victory, is going to dock at Calais this month. There are still men loyal to England there."

There was a pause before Blunt replied.

"No lass. That yer won't be doin'."

Cicely looked at him, fear overtaking her. This was it: he'd made her bear her soul, tell him the bald truth and all along he was going to turn her over. She felt herself sigh aloud in despair. Then Cicely glanced at the tent flap –

"No," he repeated again, seizing her wrists again as it crossed Cicely's mind to bolt again. "We go aboard a naval ship in two days' time." Blunt looked towards the tent opening as Cicely was now and she drew her eyes questioningly to his face.

"You can find yer way about a ship; 'arris 'as vouched fer yer. I could do with another m –, person who knows their way round a tub." He let her go again and strode to the side of the tent where the, for want of a better word, door, was wafting in the breeze. "Sergeant Major Harker?" Blunt leaned through and shouted out. A voice not too far away replied.

"Yes sir?"

"Get Young here a uniform. He is to rest and be seen by the physician. Bring food, too."

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The regiment's doctor, a short, dark-haired man in round spectacles, had barely been in the tent before he left again. Under Blunt's supervision he only briefly examined her stature and span, perhaps because he had seemed a little uncertain at Blunt's instruction to examine her without actually examining her.

"What I want ter know is, can he 'old a rifle?" Blunt had said eventually, clearly exasperated. The physician had said nothing, felt her brow and diagnosed fatigue, recommending rest and nourishment, the very remedy, Cicely noted, that Blunt had iterated himself to the doctor once he had brought him to Cicely. And, for once, she had done as she was told. She rested, ate and considered her immediate future, where she would be able to tread the boards again and do a job which she had some skill and do it well in return for the opportunity to locate "Surprise".

The day and evening had passed quickly. Both Harris and Blunt had returned to visit her; the latter clearly taking his own rest elsewhere and she had been left to her more optimistic thoughts and dreams until the dawn bugle roused her the next morning.

The green of the rifleman's tunic glowed in the early morning sun. It had been a good fit if the sleeves were too long and the boots that the Sergeant Major had brought with the uniform were the best she had had since those she had stolen from "The Mount's" stable.

The camp was situated close to a wood with open fields to one side. The ground was hard, compressed through from wear, with grassy clumps here and there. In front of her a large tent which, as men in identical tunic and trousers to her were entering and leaving carrying clothing, blankets and guns, must be the stores. Cicely turned, seeking the Major or, at least, Harris. It took her a few moments to realise what it was she had seen: a large frigate in dock right in front of her.

Cicely's heart beat faster as she analysed the sheets and rigs. No, she concluded, not "Surprise". But she may have been there longer in her deliberation had not a hand clamped her shoulder.

"I take it you accept my terms?" Blunt looked past her and at the frigate himself. "We are going to the enemy, to France. We're to provide a force to help the rebellious French…aristocrats…liberals…traitors…" His voice trailed off as Cicely turned to the Major.

"Major Blunt," she replied, "may I clarify? You need my expertise, what basic it is, to help your men to France. And I may use my time to seek "Surprise?"

"Yes, lad," Blunt confirmed. "Should you not when we dock at Quiberon, you may be at your liberty." Cicely nodded. That meant she was released from any formal agreement which Blunt would undoubtedly make her undertake to officially become a rifleman private.

Blunt led her fifty yards to where the rest of the company, almost a dozen men, who were in full swing of making their preparations. Some of them looked up from their tasks, Matthew Harris included, who winked at Cicely as they stood straight for their Major.

"Men, we are today to board His Majesty's ship "Thorn", Major Blunt began. The riflemen, silent before him, looked past him as he spoke.

"This is the day we have been waiting for, and we are in luck." He looked at Cicely, who tried not to let her self-consciousness show on her face. To Blunt's side a large-framed man had joined him. She knew enough about uniforms to deduce he was the Sergeant Major who had issued her the uniform. Almost six inches taller than Blunt, who was tall enough, and almost twice his girth in bulk and muscle – the man would have to be nimble to operate low with a rifle. Cicely realised she was staring and the man stared back. Clearly Blunt must have divulged his arrangement with Cicely with his next in command. Not that she had much choice over what he did or said now. She had agreed and, for the first time in five years, her fate was now presided over by a man.

"Men, we have a young private here. Or should I say, Private Young." Cicely felt all eyes on her. She looked back at her new colleagues impassively as a couple of murmurs amongst the men began to rise. They stopped dead as Blunt began to speak again.

"Private Young here has got himself into a rather difficult situation. He owes a debt to some people who don't take no for an answer."

"Don't we all," someone said. Snorts of agreement accompanied it.

"The Grand Union are like that," said another.

"If he returns to the canallers the company will have him hanged, even if I speak for him." Blunt surveyed his men and Cicely was reminded of Aubrey's similar approach when he was impressing understanding onto his seamen.

"Shame! Shame!"

"So, Young here has offered to work off his debt, work for country under my command until we reach the continent. He is to redeem himself with the best company this country has known. We are the King's Own!"

"Hurrah!" The reply was lusty and strong and Cicely was fully convinced that the riflemen before she and Blunt believed completely in his words.

"I offered him the king's shilling, and he has taken it!"

"Hurrah!"

"Bet that's not 'e's taken!" another voice added jovially.

"We have a much to prepare. Men: to usual jobs. And say goodbye to yer wives. We're goin' to France this night!"

"Hurrah! Hurrah!"

Cicely watched as the men stood down informally and recommenced their duties: cleaning rifles; folding blankets; dismantling tents…

…how like the navy in some ways, Cicely thought. The discipline and chain of command, certainly. A charismatic officer that commanded respect, just like Aubrey. But past the rigour and hierarchy a certain solidarity which was dissimilar to that aboard ship – perhaps it was the fact the men were not contained – the men seemed open and more liberated and it was more of a choice or effort to band together to make their company work.

"Young?" Cicely was brought back to the present moment from her daydreaming. She looked up at Blunt who had a

"You too. Get started." He gestured to the corner of the stores tent. "We're goin' tonight. That pile of boots over there all need polishin'."


	10. Time and Tide

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"My good men." It was always a good opening, and much desired. Captain Aubrey had practised his speech for almost a week since his previous orders to remain put had dampened his enthusiasm. Now his men stood before him, assembled once more on the main deck, with undisguised anticipation. And at last Aubrey could slake their thirst for action.

"My good men," Aubrey repeated. "At last our day is upon us. We are to depart this day through the Channel." He allowed the information a chance to filter through into their consciousness before continuing.

"We are to join the flagship, the Victory," he continued, glancing to his right at his temporary surgeon, Thomas Hardy. His habit of avoiding Aubrey's crew as often as he could had caused Aubrey much annoyance and, whether it had been the wharfing of the Surprise for so long or no, he had taken to insisted that every soul aboard be present whenever he addressed the men. This had caused much ire in the ship's kitchens but, levelled with the opportunity for a variety of fresh, unadulterated food purchasable from Vlissingen town on a regular basis the cook had much less grudgingly co-operated.

"We are much honoured in our mission: our Lord Admiral chooses only those ships worth of flanking her. We are much prepared and that is down to your hard work. It is hoped that our work now will end the war with France."

"Hurrah!" yelled a couple of voices. "Hurrah!"

Hurrah indeed, thought Aubrey. He had a vague idea that Lord Nelson would be toying with Villeneuve in some way. If it had been to clear the Victory's bilge-hole Aubrey doubted he would have cared – they would have something to _do_. The competition he had arranged had occupied his men as predicted; the Meerschaum pipe having been won by their Coxswain Barrett Bonden, much to his delight but this event had now passed on into recent memory.

"Quick is the word then, and sharp is the action. Ship-shape and Bristol-fashion! Asail the tide!"

At his word, the crew resumed their duties, readying the Surprise for immediate sail. Aubrey turned away and looked over the prow from the quarterdeck. He had spent most of the last fortnight wishing that he himself had been the Captain of the Thorn: the ship which had been berthed adjacent Surprise before being given, presumably, orders to sail. Now…

….something about the orders this time made him feel uneasy. Perhaps it was because the orders had come direct from Admiralty House rather than the flagship. But…orders were orders and just now Aubrey was grateful for any function at all.

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The letter was signed by "Captain Jack Aubrey". More than just a letter, Wickham mused as he examined the original letter sent to Aubrey from his wife and the one sent to her from Cicely Maturin. A pamphlet, more like, the spymaster thought and wondered what Maturin would have made of the wealth of information he had in his possession.

At last, William Wickham had a legitimate reason to hand over this entire matter to the Navy and he knew exactly who would be _most delighted_ to receive such a tangle of information. Or rather, he would not.

The room in France's capital was roomy and he knew the loyal landlord from previous business on behalf of British intelligence. Open to ideas as well as money, the landlord owed Wickham more than one favour for dragging him out of revolutionary trouble and he only wished he had the time to indulge his leisure therein.

Folding the ever-growing tome in two, Wickham removed a clean sheet of Bond paper from his belongings and spends a few moments penning a note to Lord Nelson's private secretary who would curse him to seven hells for giving him such a mess to deal with.

But of course I've done the right thing, thought Wickham, in mock-response to Gordon's imagined anger. Such is no longer in my sphere of responsibility, especially as I must oversee the redesignation of Maturin's work, of course…

…at least the words he had last spoken to Buckley before he had left London would have a measure of truth in them now. And it wouldn't be long before Nelson would be in full disposal of the facts. Officially, anyway. Whether the Lord Admiral of the fleet would actually know in the actual sense of the word, that was unclear.

Looking down onto the street where traders were beginning to assemble under dark brown canvases to hawk their wares, Wickham sealed the wad of paper, addressing the outer paper to Henry Gordon at Admiralty House.

At last, Wickham thought again. No longer my problem. And now?

Stephen Maturin's face flashed before his own. It was unlike Wickham to be needled by his conscience but ever since his top spy's _redeployment_ the Doctor's contorted features would resurface unbidden, and unexpected, in his mind at the very moment he had pulled the trigger. It had to be done, Wickham had told himself each time…even if other men in his situation might not have been so merciless.

Perhaps because Maturin's challenge to his own skill in espionage was now no more and he had regained his undisputed position as the _best_…perhaps because of personal pride the doctor was haunting him.

Pushing the fat paper into his inside coat pocket, Wickham picked up the thin back containing his meagre belongings. The bulging letter had made quite a journey, all in all, and now it would be making its way back to England.

Just like him: Wickham had his own journey to make, and whether Nelson would succeed at Trafalgar and Wellesley on triumph on land, those would depend on his swiftness and dexterity. And he was already pushed for time.


	11. Abide with Me

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The scream pierced the air and caused Cicely to open her eyes with a start. There was little point looking around however: the darkness behind her eyelids was merely replaced with further gloom.

Cicely blinked…

…her head felt fuzzy, as if she had slept for a week…she could sleep more…

…and felt around her. Whatever it was she was lying on felt cold and lifeless, as if it had spent a thousand years in…whatever place this was…

She felt her heart pounding in her ears as she waited for, well – anything that might either accompany the scream which had awoken her, or give shed light on what – or to whom – it had belonged…

…shed light…

…the ground was hard beneath her…the cold _something_…not her hammock…

Cicely swallowed a couple of times painfully – her mouth was dry; her lips cracked. She felt sick, like a lubber would at the first toe on plank…her stomach rumbled, but the last thing she wanted was food…

…as several…men…soldiers…riflemen –

– Cicely reached up to her head and rubbed it. The cause of her vagueness originated both in absence of ready information to discern her whereabouts and her inability to think as clearly as she might…

…riflemen…

...Cicely exhaled, then inhaled the stale air around her …and throughout her body an ache, as if she had worked her body hard and it was finally thanking her for rest. She forced her mind to focus on what she knew…on what she remembered…on her last memories…

…then closed her eyes again which, of course, made no difference to the level of luminosity in her environs.

She had boarded the Thorn with the men…with the regiment – of that she was sure. Cicely remembered clearly the feeling of elation and pride as she stepped aboard a Royal Naval ship again, a sloop akin to "Surprise"…

…the familiarity of the ropes under her fingers as she and Matthew Harris were put to work within moments of their prior experience being relayed to the Thorn's captain –

– she wasn't in her hammock, of that she was certain: was she still aboard the Thorn? She had to be in the hold for her not to be able to see any light; none chinked through what might be deck planks above. If she were there, that would explain why there was pungent smell of seaweed...but then…see the light chinking between deck planks above…feel the undulation of the hull on the briny –

– another scream, trailing off to a groan. This time Cicely sat up, knocking her head on something hard above her. She lay back down, her head racing as she processed the lone stimulus.

…it didn't seem too close, somewhat muffled and indistinct but what was plain was that the utterer was in pain…

…not aboard a ship, Cicely concluded. The scream had echoed crisply. Had they been aboard a ship it would have been muffled, as if the edges had been absorbed by the timber. She fought to piece together events – anything that made sense and would help her deduce her whereabouts…

…and her_ whenabouts_: she knew even less about those…

Blocking the scream and any associated consequences from her mind Cicely fought to concentrate. Major Blunt had boarded the Thorn with his men on the 3rd September. She was certain of the date for Fletcher had recounted that it was on that such day that a battle in the English Civil War had been fought, and won by the Parliamentarians. Cicely remembered because she was _most_ certain that the Royal Navy would never spend its time remembering battle anniversaries. She also remembered because Blunt had issued a ration of grog to his men once they had boarded, an arrangement clearly made with the Thorn's captain in advance.

Prior to its distribution Cicely and Harris had been split from the regiment, briefed n their roles by a tall, thin midshipman and given seaman's garb to don in exchange for their green regimental uniforms. She remembered being grateful for the minutes they had had in the lower decks, after they had been shown their hammocks, that she could derobe swiftly and discreetly and feeling a kind of peace in half-britches and loose blouson.

The incumbent salts aboard the Thorn had welcomed them as kin – it was what all sailors did: all were brothers…family...separated by mere ocean and wooden craft. They respected their captain too, a devotion that told Cicely they had been the Captain's men for a long time. Captain Short was a not like Jack however: he was much less forward thinking. Jack knew that the care of the working sailor's body and mind made for good working conditions for the ship. Often this Captain would punish his sailors more than strictly necessary and the care and maintenance of the vessel itself appeared to be always behind, carried out only when the need was dire and the resources scant.

Cicely swallowed again, her mouth still dry and she turned her attention to the here and now. Still black before her eyes, and still silent. For now. She waited: how many more tortured screams were to come in this place that was not the Thorn? If it turned out that she was confined would they be hers very soon?

Exhausted through the effort of thought Cicely allowed the cloudiness of her mind that she had forced to one side in pursuit of clarity to diffuse back across her consciousness. Closing her eyes she felt hr body relax. With more sleep, then at least she would be able to be…be more…

…she remembered standing on the forecastle deck and looking out behind the Thorn…they had skirted the Needles and were on their way to…to…

…she had seen "Surprise": she knew it…Cicely had recognised her immediately from her sheet configuration and the pattern of her bearing in the water…

…perhaps it had been accompanying them…perhaps she could get aboard…have got aboard…

…have got…somehow…

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A/N: Yes, of course, the Royal N wouldn't lower itself to remember battle anniversaries…especially anything which might happened on 21st October.


	12. Immuration

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He had taken the route through Poitiers and was now heading towards the East coast of France. It had been hard traversing the country: soldiers at every turn with every possibility of being discovered. Wickham had thought he would be able to make it over the Pyrenees to the Western coast of Spain - a quicker route but, with Britain's armed forces on both land and sea amassing South East of the country, his best opportunity would be to try to intercept any ships on their way and hitch a lift.

And then, once in Spain, the spectre of enemy would be behind him. He would be in the position to seek help where and when he needed it; he could gain valuable information and insight towards his undertaking. In short, he would be ahead. And then he would be the best – everyone who was in the position to know, would know that he was the best spy. The fact that the opposition had been eliminated was irrelevant.

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The prison cell, for that was what it was, lay open into a stone corridor. The darkness had opened up slightly as daylight found its way along it. Cicely had ascertained that the room in which she was incarcerated was small, with a low ceiling, but not unclean. Also with the receding darkness she had discovered what purported to be a pewter plate of food and a flagon of ale. The latter she had drunk but, as the food looked fit only to be fed to animals, she had left untouched.

How long had she been here? Cicely had little idea. She did not remember at all being brought there, and had met no-one since. Sitting there, in a cell, waiting, she wondered what her brother, Edward, would have made of her now.

She concentrated on the bars, and on the corridor. Someone must have been there to leave the sustenance. Someone knew she was there. Was her fate something like the suffering of the poor wretch she had heard? At least she now had a clear mind. And she began to use it, trying to piece together what she remembered.

Cicely hadn't got far into her thoughts when the lock on the cell door was being opened and the door wrenched open. A soldier, saying nothing to Cicely, thrust another figure, hunched in shoulder, into the room before clanging the metal bars shut. Against the adjacent wall the figure slid until they were sitting with their knees bent and head inclined downwards.

She made to look towards the soldier who had brought her now-companion in the hope of questioning him but she could only hear his boot-steps on the flagstones getting fainter and fainter by the second. Who was the person? Why were they in the cell with her?

Cicely felt her mind race. Whoever it was must have some connection to her – the building surely contained more than one cell and the place seemed quiet enough. Why would the soldier bother to make them share a cell when others were probably vacant…

…unless…

…could it be…?

She darted towards the figure, who raised their head. It was Matthew Harris. In the gloom, her colleague smiled in her direction. Cicely tried not to let her disappointment show as his recognition of her made him smile a little, then wince, leaning slightly away from the wall.

"Mrs Maturin?"

"Harris," replied Cicely. They had agreed to surnames between one another, and "Young" aboard the Thorn. "It's good to see you." Next to Harris Cicely sat next to him. "Was that you I heard…earlier?"

"Yes," he nodded. "They wanted to know what the regiment and the ship were doing, and weren't taking no for an answer. I said that the only people who knew that were the Lord Admiral, a commodore or two, and maybe a captain. They didn't like that answer much!"

Cicely smiled in the gloom. Having bonded a little with Harris on the Thorn in their week working together it had struck her how like her brother he was. Kind and honest, patient and considered. Yet he was unlike Edward in other ways too: forthright where her brother was reserved; jovial rather than serious. He was as popular a sailor as he was a soldier.

"What about you?" asked Harris. Cicely saw his head move so that he was looking at her. "I thought you were still aboard the Thorn. I thought you'd sailed with it."

"I think I was drugged," she replied, licking her lips. They were moist again – she had deigned to drink the ale which had been provided with the food that had been left. Had she not read over Stephen's notes, she might not know that laudanum and valerian too, in large doses, could induce unconsciousness, nor recognise the after-effects.

"There are things I don't remember. I thought Blunt had reneged on his deal and sold me over." He had handed her over to Wigg, Cicely had deduced and she had spent a large proportion of her time alone imagining what her life would be like as the wife of the JP. Benjamin Wigg would want her…she would be confined…in general, it would be awful, and all because her father wanted Wigg's money he her father's status. It was a match made in heaven for both men, but, unfortunately for her, depended upon Cicely giving up her life, and her choice of life.

Dragging her thoughts back to the present Cicely felt herself sighing and Matthew reached down and picked up her hand, putting his other over the top of hers. It was something the Major had said as the regiment left…

"…when we've gone right over that ridge there, you'll be your own master, Mrs Maturin…"

At the time, Cicely had taken it to mean that she had repaid her debt to him and Great Britain, but now, sitting here in little light and reduced liberty, something seemed to miss a chord.

"I don't think so," Matthew continued, returning her hand back to her side after a reassuring grip. "We were supposed to join them – don't you remember – but the Thorn was ambushed.

The regiment retreated back to the Thorn once they saw the blue coats aboard. You were working below decks. I don't know who else they captured. I did see Blunt instruct the men to fight. If he had wanted to hand us over, he would have waited. They used the fishing boats, the French soldiers…"

Yes, of course, thought Cicely, noticing the pain that Harris was making every effort to hide from her. That had been the reason the Thorn had docked at Penzance was to collect fishing boats from the harbour. The regiment's men, Cicely and Harris included, were to dress as fishermen in order to converse with the local population – fishermen on the North coast of France put aside political difference when trade, upon which livelihoods depended, was at stake – and discover the whereabouts of the hidden anti-republicans.

They had anchored just off Quiberon Bay and this, Blunt had explained to both regiment and salts alike had been his second attempt at invasion in alliance with these French rebels…aristocrats, academics, those who were just fervently against Bonaparte in general. This group inside France were to be the ones to help Blunt's regiment into France, with more to follow, providing them with help in the meantime. Clearly this endeavour was not entirely successful either.

"Tell me what happened," Cicely asked when she realised Harris had fallen silent. "They've tortured you, haven't they?" She took his silence as affirmation.

"They gave me a choice Mrs Maturin," Harris said eventually. "They might give you one." She stared at him quickly. Had he told her secret?

"No," he replied, as if reading her mind. "It wasn't for me to talk of your...femininity. But I implore you…tell them…they may be lenient…"

Harris's voice trailed off as he looked towards the cell door. The figure that was pulling away at the iron railings of the door appeared to be the same one who had thrust Harris into the cell less than twenty minutes before. Cicely held her breath as, in French, the soldier uttered something in her direction.

She edged forward, past Harris and towards the door. To underline that it was indeed her that he required, the soldier banged something across the bars and ushered frantically towards the door.

This was it – they would want to know what she knew too, and she knew less than Harris did.

"I've not told them anything about you," Harris added, as if to emphasise his previous sentence. But before she could reply, the soldier was locking the cell again and pushing her away from it and towards a flight of stone steps.

Thank you, Matthew Harris, thought Cicely as she went. And now…?

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The room into which she was driven was dark, much darker than the cell she had just occupied for there appeared to be no natural light entering it, unlike the corridor and even the cell. In one corner a fire licked in a waist-height hearth which looked not dissimilar to a forge fire. The rest of the room, with the exception of a couple of wooden chairs against the far wall, was empty. In one of them, adjacent the fire another soldier sat. He barked something in French towards the one who had brought in Cicely.

Cicely had spoken French, had learned it when she was a girl. But her soldier was speaking in the language in an unrecognisable dialect – voice seemed slurred and disjointed. He turned to Cicely and spoke again and when she replied in French that she did not understand the soldier raised his hand and struck her across her face. She stumbled as the man shouted now the words that he had uttered moments before. She still did not understand.

This time he repeated his words slowly, punctuating each word with a shove or a punch. The final fist-blow landed on her nose, causing liquid to well on her top lip and drip down her chin onto the floor. The soldier pulled her up by her shirt, tearing at the fabric with his fingers. Cicely had little time to consider this as the other man began to make his way over to the fire.

He appeared to be prodding at the coals in the fire, glancing at Cicely every so often. The first soldier held her firmly: clearly her incomprehension had infuriated the soldier.

Cicely felt her mind go cold as she saw the man take the horse brand out of the fire.


	13. Fouche

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And now, where was she? The room was neatly decorated in a modern style, yet functional: bereft of unnecessary decoration. Cicely was alone here, for now. Had been left alone. Her mind turned to reflection as she paced up and down on the fine blue carpet.

In the torture chamber, for that was what it clearly was, Cicely had recognised the look of incomprehension crossed with bewilderment that had latently appeared on the faces of both guards. It had been the same one which Captain Aubrey had worn when he had to finally admit that his lowly mizzen lad was in fact a girl. It meant, "I've never come across this before – what do I do?"

Her clothes, and bindings too, had been torn from her from the soldier who had fetched her from her cell, a bulky, swarthy man, and it was clear from the brand which the second was wielding, that she was being readied to endure the same punishment as Matthew Harris. Cicely had screwed her eyes shut in anticipation of the agony which was to come.

But it didn't and when she turned to look at the soldier who was holding her she watched as his determined expression melted away and he had spoken urgently – unintelligibly – in French to his colleague who, in turn, had garbled something back before striding through the door through which the first soldier had brought her.

The first had backed away, as if she were a temperamental cannon and would explode unexpectedly very soon and it occurred to Cicely that she had on display more than her unbound breasts to her captor: her loose abdomen too was illuminated in the light of the oil lamp, where her child had grown. Their child. Before he had joined her brother Edward.

The soldier had thrown her a dark blue tunic which Cicely had considered rejecting on the grounds of patriotism but there was something in the expression on the man's face which told her that the situation was wildly out of his capacity. Not without pulling at the insignia on the shoulders Cicely drew it over her arms and pushed through the brass buttons into their holes.

Now what? The soldier was eyeing her as she was him. Maybe once they had overcome their surprise the torture would continue as planned? Not for the first time Cicely felt shame pink at her cheeks. Those people she loved…were they to see her now…how she had disgraced her husband, and besmirched the memories of her brother and her son…

It had been such melancholy thoughts which weighted in her consciousness as she had bathed.

Perhaps a copper of hot, clean water was not exactly the place Cicely had imagined herself following her visit to the previous room. The second soldier had returned and, through incoherent discourse with the first before escorting her to a room filled with the aforementioned bath, almost throwing her into the room as if she were aflame then retreating quickly. Before Cicely had time to question the soldier the lock was being twisted into place with a loud clang.

She had bathed and redressed. Clothing had been left for her which consisted of nothing that Robert Young would wear and everything Cicely Maturn would. No, thought Cicely. The clothes were far more elegant than she had chosen to wear herself when she had stood by her husband's side in functional garb. Restrictive, uncomfortable and unnecessarily embellished these clothes were fit for a lady. They were fit for Cicely Hollum –

Her thoughts contracted inside her mind as Cicely's conscious was brought to the present by the sound of the room's door opening. She turned on her heel.

The man was tall, but slight. He had a youthful face, thin, long nose and pointy chin with small, piercing eyes which seemed to take in the whole room, Cicely included, as if quickly analysing, processing, it. He held his body economically, as if to conserve movement and gesture. His age was betrayed in his features, however. Perhaps in his middle age, no matter how well he kept himself. Cicely watched him, waiting for conversation, or at least some sort of body signal, but none came. There was a coldness about him, an aloofness. It was as if this man's own character was irrelevant, so well disguised that it was.

Cicely made to speak, but at that moment the now-closed door re-opened. Behind the man, a soldier appeared, not one she recognised, but in the same uniform. He garbled something in French, to which the tall man nodded whilst resting his gaze on Cicely. Again, the words came fast and almost unintelligible to her, but when the man replied to the soldier, she did hear one word she recognised…

…espion…

…so there were spies around: spies who would want them to participate in their plans, no doubt. Well, she had plans of her own, even if the were even further out of reach than ever before…

…mademoiselle…

…and they knew she was a female too…maybe this would fall in her favour, for once –

"Mademoiselle?"

Cicely looked sharply at the man as she realised he was actually speaking to her. Shunting her thoughts aside, she noticed too that the soldier had gone and she and the first man were standing alone in the room.

"Miss Hollum," the man continued, fixing his eyes on her firmly. "I feel I know you so well, Mademoiselle, and yet here we are, meeting at last." Cicely felt her mouth drop open. Standing before the man in the latest ill-fitting fashion, her gender was now clear, but how – ?

"Miss Hollum," he repeated. "Your clothing is appropriate now, I feel, and very fetching."

Cicely felt a pinking of self-consciousness pink at her cheeks. She considered the dress again which was indeed beautiful, made exquisitely from fine white cotton and lace in the directoire style. The sleeves were delicate lace trimmed with silk brocade, its skirts over bounteous undergarments draped diaphanously. Cicely had been left the option of velvet ribbons and mob cap too, neither of which she had opted.

The outfit would have been costly, she knew and, were her hair styled in the appropriate classical style with ringlets, curls and Psyche knots she may have been the envy of Parisian society ten years before. Not that styling her hair was possible; such frivolous hair arrangement would be impossible with hers, shorn and uneven, practical and un-cumbersome.

Cicely realised the man was waiting, silently and stilly, as if for her own response. Staring back at him she wondered whether, if neither spoke first how long the silence would actually endure. Eventually the man made his way, as if designed, to the chair over which her undesirable attire had been laid, rotating one leg at the hip and resting tall-booted ankle on his other knee.

"I had been beginning to think I would have to search you out in England and yet the fates brought you here, straight to me." Cicely continued to say nothing, wondering how long her strategy would hold as she tried to conceal the growing fire of panic smouldering in her mind.

Why was she here? How did he know about her? Who was he? As if hearing her questions, the man got to her feet.

"I should introduce myself, Mademoiselle Hollum." The man rose gracefully and nodded in her direction and Cicely felt herself growing uneasy. "My name is Joseph Fouche."

"Cicely Maturin," replied Cicely, with sudden emboldenment. The man was a noble, formerly, at least. She was very experienced in conversing with those of status even if his latter sentence revealed his loyalty to the Consulate, Napoleon's government. "But you said you knew that already." But there was something else, something he had just said which had started Cicely's mind to wander. Fouche. Where had she heard that name before?

"Miss Hollum, officially," replied Fouche, his face fixed and expressionless. "You married, as you say, à bord du navire…sous la voile…"

"On a British ship, yes," confirmed Cicely.

"And…hm…such unions are not legal in Great Britain. Not until both yourself and the docteur say your promises before a reverend. But, of course, you knew that." She didn't know that, and affirmation of her ignorance were clear on her face and this time, in response, a flicker of pleasure passed across Fouche's features.

"Your intended hunted you, Miss Hollum. A juge d'instance…Benjamin Wigg?" There was no denying it. Cicely nodded, defeated.

"A match of double reward, for both Sir Hollum and Monsieur Wigg? That your pere would gain from money, no doubt, and your intended from connections at court?" He walked past Cicely, looking at her as he spoke, before turning on his heel and stopping to face her. She nodded. "A perfect arrangement. Except…you are not in England, and have fled your fiancé."

"I do not recognise Benjamin Wigg as such: my husband is Doctor Maturin."

"Indeed, as you said," replied Fouche. "And you would suffer disguise, pain, hardship and toil…many difficulties not to be in that man's company where you would have such comfortable life."

"I would have a prison," corrected Cicely. "I knew that even before I boarded the Surprise in the first place..."

"Ah, your brother," continued Fouche, staring at her in the way that Cicely had seen Stephen stare at birds and insects, with curiosity: as if another minute of observation would bare their inner secrets. "How sad, how sad."

Cicely said nothing, but averted her eyes from the man. Who was he that he knew about her life in such a manner?

"And so the only other person who could have acted on your behalf ended his life before he found out who you were." Fouche shook his head as if in sympathy. "You matter, Mademoiselle Hollum. Both to your father and Monsieur Wigg. It is vital that they get you back – "

" – I won't be going back – " Cicely tried to make her voice sound resolute when inside her courage was slowly ebbing away.

" – you matter," he repeated purposefully. "You set a-fire your father's house. You _dared_, as a woman, to masquerade as a man and work on a warship!" He took a step suddenly towards her, his hitherto impassive expression changing in seconds to one of detestation as he curled his lip menacingly, which made Cicely start. Almost as quickly as he had turned on her however, he stepped back, and continued to intermittently pace the uneven stone floor.

"You come to my attention when you marry a man of my own stead – "

Cicely said nothing. She had heard the word "espion" spoken as this man Fouche had arrived, of course.

"Though we are men of intrigue, we do not share the same endeavour. It is a pity; Maturin would have been a great asset to France…to the Emperor – "

"Never!" declared Cicely, outraged that this man would attempt to besmirch her husband's reputation. "He is against Bonaparte and all that your Emperor represents!" She felt rare anger rise in her stomach.

"Now, perhaps, yes. But not always." Fouche moved quietly across the room, his voice soft and steady. "He was there on the day the bourgeoisie over-ran the city. When the waged overthrew the tyrannical system of nobility and impressed their will on the guards at the prison Bastille. Your docteur was there those few years later when the King and his Austrian whore were finally executed. He would have made as great a spy for the republic as he does for her enemy.

But Cicely wasn't really listening. It was the fact that this man was a spy that she was focused on. In a chair opposite the one Fouche had first occupied Cicely sank, festooned with erroneous attire. She had come across his name before, along with three others. She had seen it written down…

…in Stephen's notebook! And, though scant, other information too…

She had nothing to lose.

"Why am I here, Monsieur Fouche?" Her question reverberated around the stone lined room as she got to her feet, renewed. "You aren't threatened by me, I: a slip of a girl. Surely I am no more than fodder for a junior under your command, or those soldiers." She felt her defiance radiate from her as she noticed with some satisfaction the polished performance of the high-ranking political spy falter. "I am insignificant…yet you interrogate me. Why?" She stepped towards him boldly. "You are resentful of my having worked on a ship, even if it is one belonging to your enemy. Why?"

This time it was Fouche who held the silence. His look penetrated his impassive stare confirming all to Cicely that she had just said.

"…you are a Jacobin…"

Fouche said nothing straight away. As silence continued to endure Cicely began to think he wouldn't say anything at all but then walked towards her, stopping mere inches from her frame and looked down at her purposely.

"I was a member of that organisation, true," he said finally. "My politics are those of the Republic. Indeed, I was intended to sail, but had to find use for other talents when ill health prevented my vocation. And you are quite wrong…you are very important, and though your disguise on a warship is abhorrent, there is an advantage now to the cause of France."

Stepping past her quickly, Fouche strode towards the opposite wall, to where the Bonaparte's insignia hung, and he looked at it, as if in examination. Cicely waited for him to turn back to her but when he did not, she found herself turning to look at him, intrigued by his direct verification of her accusations.

"I work to crush royalist support wherever I found it, Mademoiselle Hollum, which is how I came on the bungled plot involving the British regiment and a ship of your admiral's fleet. I work with a man named Villiers." Cicely watched as he turned back to face her, his pale eyes fixing hers. "Henri Villiers has a sister. Your unspoken question to me since the moment I arrived is: how is it this man knows so much about me? The details I have astonished you with today have come from a letter written by Dr. Maturin to Mademoiselle Villiers."

Cicely felt her heart pounding in her chest. Stephen chose to reveal details of her life to some woman? How close were they? Her legs felt weak but she willed herself with the strength she had remaining to hold fast.

"Shall we say they were lovers? Indeed, the last time they met, that was their relationship, I understand." Fouche walked back slowly towards Cicely, holding her gaze at every step. "I believe, in his lengthy correspondence – " in his hand the spy held a letter a hand Cicely recognised straight away, " – the doctor was bidding dear Diana adieu," continued Fouche, a smile curling on his lips. "Although I also believe Mademoiselle Villiers had chosen to doubt such a poor end an end to their relationship: Maturin has made to conclude their association before only for the Mademoiselle to find a means to convince him otherwise. Perhaps she knew also that a ship's wedding was only firm when both people are asail together."

He wants me to panic. Cicely heard a small voice, no louder than a whisper, echo at the back of her mind. He wants me to worry about this Diana Villiers, to give myself up to my father or to Wigg, or to be concerned about my immediate future here in this prison. He wants it to be my decision – that by my own hand I am condemned.

Nevertheless, the repercussions of what Fouche had revealed to Cicely were beginning to make her feel sick: her heart was beating loudly in her throat and she felt a tightening feeling in her lower back, as if she wanted to run and keep on running.

Silence held sway again, broken only by the sound of Fouche's boots as he began to walk before her again.

"Has what I have said made a difference, Mademoiselle Hollum?" Cicely ignored his question even though she knew every ounce of her being was radiating an answer in the positive. "You could start your life again," Fouche continued, his tone rich with persuasion. "You could put aside the uncertainties, the difficulties, the Mademoiselle…you could admit to yourself that the union between yourself and Stephen Maturin was an error."

"Never!" exclaimed Cicely, though she knew her tone sounded hollow as she uttered the word to the wall behind Fouche.

"So then, you have a choice." Fouche's voice penetrated her mind, drowning out her soft inner soothings. "To stay as the lady that you are, Mademoiselle Hollum. In France if you choose not to return to your country: there are those in Brittany whose company you may keep should you wish to revel in royalist sympathies. Or as a prisoner here. By choosing either of these options will result in you never seeing your husband." Cicely felt herself look at Fouche and, in doing so, allowing the panic and alarm that she had kept dammed behind her stubborn determination to spill over.

She wanted so much to talk to Stephen, discuss the issues that Fouche had raised. How much was there she didn't know about his life? Was she to believe he had put his past behind him, as he had claimed? Beaten, she sank to her knees as her hopes drained to nothing.

"Then I can see you wish to choose the third option, Mademoiselle, the one where you have a chance of seeing your…husband…again." Cicely looked up from her crumpled position at Fouche's feet. "Dr. Matuirn is currently – elsewhere detained – "

" – can I see him? Please…take me to him…"

To hold him in her arms again – to have him hold her and explain: what wouldn't she do just for a few moments with Stephen now. Fouche shook his head stiffly and walked towards the room's dark wooden door.

"That you are in my control, Mademoiselle Hollum, there is an advantage now to the cause of France. Be in no doubt that should you refuse my proposal however, the man you call your husband will _be _executed.

He was …somewhere…here perhaps. This spy Fouche had him, and was using that to control her.

"I can see I have no other choice," Cicely said eventually. This was the best choice, the _only _choice. The one which gave her hope. She looked up to Fouche who astonishingly, held out his arm towards her. Cicely took it and allowed him to help her to her feet.

"What do you require me to do?"

"If you will, Mademoiselle Hollum, sit with me. We are, after all, civilised." Without waiting for her to acquiesce he led her back to the plain wooden chair that she had sat in earlier. Cicely sat down, obediently. Joseph Fouche returned to the door of the room and opened it, talking swiftly to the soldier on the other side of it.

"I would be pleased, Mademoiselle Hollum, if you would share a refreshment." Cicely said nothing. Whatever pleased this man now she would comply with, even if it did delay her finding out her role in his scheme.

Fouche left the room, closing the door behind him. Seconds later, Cicely was on her feet, pacing the stone floor as the events of the last hour. Tired and in need of sustenance, thoughts fought for primacy in her fatigued mind…

…Stephen wasn't on the Surprise…he was being held prisoner by Fouche and being used as a bargaining token…he had undertaken some sort of intrigue and had been captured…he had had (as he had shared with her a long time ago) a relationship with another woman, but had been intimate with her recently…and had given over details of Cicely's life…

Cicely stopped by the stone fireplace which was ash-filled and unlaid, considering the charges Blunt had laid before her. How hollow her words to him sounded now, that she acted through good intentions and hope of their love together. The Major had called her selfish and arrogant and, whether it had been these traits or no, she was here, in this situation, with no other viable choices ahead of her save the one this spy Fouche was to put towards her.

In the mirror above the fireplace Cicely cursed her own reflection as she glimpsed herself in womanly clothing. It did not matter, none of it did – not the words Blunt had spoken, or the course of events beginning with her capture on the Thorn. No matter the past, or even the present, Cicely knew she loved Stephen, true love, the kind which makes your chest heavy with an unshakeable burden.

She knew she would have chosen any means possible that would have led her to him, that her place was beside him whatever the cost –

…Cicely felt the knot in her stomach rise and cried uncontrollable tears…

– and the cost seemed to be trouble and danger and the pain and suffering of others…

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"In a few days' time the flagship of the British Navy will dock in Calais." A good twenty minutes had passed since the spy's return bringing with him what appeared to be coffee and a heavy fruit cake at the door of the room, in both of which Cicely had been more than happy to partake. "Its intention is diplomatic, that is, and French seamen captured since the peace between our two nations will be given to us. In return British captives will be allowed their freedom." Fouche paused, as if waiting for Cicely to reply. When she said nothing, he continued.

"This exchange of prisoners is highly unusual and has been kept secret for several months. Both the Emperor and your King would be hostile if they were to discover the plan, but the simple reality is the French Republic can no longer afford to keep British sailors, so many that we have captured, and we are not so bloodthirsty as to kill lowly men, no matter whose colours under which they have been pressed into sail."

"Then I am to be one of these men," Cicely concluded on behalf of the spy. Over the rim of his cup Fouche raised his eyebrows.

"Indeed. But instead of merely being a recovered seaman Mademoiselle Hollum, you will be charged with a task. As you will be aboard the flagship of the British Navy, and your Lord Admiral will also be aboard. You need to get very close to him." Fouche put down his coffee cup and from the blue and white clay pot poured more of the brown liquid into it.

"You mean…I am to…_harm_ him? Kill him, is that what you propose?" He wanted her to assassinate the First Lord of the Admiralty…?

"On the contrary, Mademoiselle," replied Fouche, refilling her cup with coffee too. "There is one aboard who will kill your Admiral."

The sentence hung between them as Cicely took it in.

"Why?" she asked eventually. "Surely it would help your country better if the assassin succeeded: you are yourself French, after all."

"You would think so, hm-hm, Mademoiselle Hollum," replied Fouche, snorting at her unconcealed observation. "However, to eliminate such a strong leader quietly would mean the French nation would be robbed of her chance of triumph. Your Admiral is successful, no?" Cicely felt herself nodding.

"Indeed, there is nothing to match him, not yet. However, our Emperor, however brilliant a tactician, is something _denombrable…_ unaccountable…blindwhen it comes to our Navy. He wishes our Admiral Villeneuve to remain when it is clear that unless he is replaced, we will never defeat your sea forces. When he is replaced, his successor will defeat your Admiral, and leave the way open for an invasion."

Invasion. It had been suspected for a long time, Cicely knew. Right back to the dinner party that Sophie had thrown for her: common-place talk, rather than a far-fetched conjecture.

Cicely got to her feet, contemplating the proposal Fouche was outlining. She was to be released, but with a cause. She must prevent Admiral Nelson from being assassinated so that the fleet would be intact when they next engaged that of the French.

"The assassin claims to be against the British," continued Fouche after she had said nothing, "and is somewhat…misguided in his beliefs and intentions. Can you think of anyone who has crossed your path who may wish to cause harm to your country?"

Cicely thought about his question. Her mind turned to the men who Harris had described to her, former members of the fated Acheron crew who had survived the wreck and had been Anglicised. She remembered Harris describing how the Acheron's former Captain had masqueraded as its surgeon when the captaincy had been given to Pullings on the capture of the ship.

How the discovery of this had caused several problems and, had the ship not run into difficulty, more besides, possibly even resulting in the retaking of the ship.

Cicely remembered how Harris had noticed that the man had taken British patriation with ill grace and, though he had sworn allegiance to the King rather than endure prison, he seemed to have done so reluctantly. Yes…that made sense…it was he who was going to be the assassin! And, of course, when the Victory acquired ships to fight with her, Cicely would be able to get to the Surprise again, seek help if she needed it too.

"So, you are to be Robert Young again, are you not?" concluded Fouche, as he smiled and raised his eyebrows to Cicely. "I am sure you will find the duties aboard your country's flagship familiar. It is such a great honour to serve your country in this manner."

Yours, thought Cicely as she considered all that lay before her. I am an instrument in your plan now as much as you are in my own. And you are wrong: I will not be Robert Young.

"I will do as you ask," she confirmed with a heavy heart. Something would turn up: she knew it. And if she didn't agree, even if she were never to see him again, she knew she would be condemning Stephen to death. It all seemed very convenient, even if she didn't know whose plans it advanced.

"You will remain in my apartment, under guard, Mademoiselle," Fouche continued, making his way towards the door. It would not be fitting to an ally of the Republic, especially one so charming, to be confined."

"May I ask," began Cicely, looking sharply at the spy. "You said that the British prisoners were to be released to the British fleet." Fouche nodded.

"Indeed."

"Then how will I be certain that I will be assigned to Victory? The navy will select based on the requirements at that moment…"

"You will be. You must. You must do all within your guile and wit to ensure that happens, Mademoiselle Hollum."

"And if I don't…?" The words escaped her lips before she had a chance to stop them.

"Then Docteur Maturin will be put to death and you will be returned to your father."

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Laurent Burgoyne reported to his superior three hours after Fouche had escorted and secured the woman who had disguised herself as a sailor in an apartment on the second floor of the prison building. It was his duty to ensure that she remained there, confined and isolated, until the prisoners were exchanged between France and Britain in two days' time.

Fouche was in a lower room, much less well-equipped for…interrogation…and he – Burgoyne – had come to furnish Joseph Fouche with the evening's duties. As usual, Fouche expected each command to be reiterated once it had been carried out, audited verbally in his renowned controlling style. Nothing went on in the prison without Joseph Fouche knowing about it.

"We have other British prisoners to inform of their impending release," began Fouche once Burgoyne had told him his news. "I will come with you this evening as you carry out the necessary."

The necessary, thought Burgoyne. Torture, followed by some glimmer of salvation where the prisoners, simple men, would of course comply with information – anything they had overheard or had been privy – just to stop the…necessary. Although brutal, Burgoyne had to admit it worked.

As they walked down the dark stone corridor they passed the prisoners who had already been offered a choice.

"What if she doesn't make it onto the Victory?" Burgoyne asked as they approached the cells where the new prisoners were being held.

"She will," replied Fouche confidently, his thin features twisting in the dim oil-light murine-like. "In the end fear is a stronger motivator than honour. She will find a way."

The men passed the cell where, several hours before Cicely Maturin had been removed. Matthew Harris grew aware that they were talking about her and he tried to hold his breath so he could better hear the conversation.

Damn! Of course! He spoke not a word of French and could only discern her name, repeated again…

"…where is it you are holding Stephen Maturin?" Burgoyne tried not to allow his keen-ness to meet this spy show to his superior even though he knew that Fouche would have already discerned his professional admiration for the doctor.

…Stephen Maturin…

Matthew Harris moved painfully nearer to the cell door.

…I have had the meeting with Wickham. I am afraid you will be disappointed. He gave his master no choice, Burgoyne," Fouche continued. "Il est mort."

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A/N: Joseph Fouche was a real person, a spy for Napoleon Bonaparte.


	14. The Ousting

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At Portsmouth the "Surprise" took on more than just provisions. It had docked along with a dozen more ships under orders given directly from the Victory. Since he had broken the news to the crew a couple of weeks before, Aubrey had been amazed at how such good fortune as being chosen to work with the flagship had had on the morale of his men.

Good humour, dedication, conscientiousness…all were in good measure aboard Surprise now. And that was lucky for now they were to play host, at least for a short time, French prisoners who ha been captured over the last two years or so, prisoners of war, who were to be given in return for British prisoners.

They had left Vlissingen and joined with other ships heading towards the dockyard. His men had cheered heartily when the "Victory" had come into view and, in that moment, Aubrey had remembered thinking that actually, in the scheme of things, it was better to be the captain of his own ship, with his own men, rather than that of the "Thorn", something about which he had fantasised when the ship had been docked.

"The ship is safe, and at its best in harbour," he remembered Hardy commenting one evening, perhaps in an attempt to soothe Aubrey's ill-temper. His outlook towards the doctor had softened over the months – Hardy had shown himself able around the ship despite his pomposity still towards his men, and had slowly earned their respect.

"But that isn't what ships were built for," Jack had replied. And, as he had borne the ship west into the English Channel he thought he had glimpsed the rig of the "Thorn" again, square white and flat against the horizon. No, for sure. He was glad now to be one of the chosen ships of the fleet to be commanded by the Naval flagship. All he had had to do was to wait.

And now his orders were clear. Three score French were now aboard for the short yet significant voyage to the French coast. His men had been hospitable and polite to the prisoners, and continued to be civil. Their disposition was not reciprocated: the French men, though they knew they were to be returned to freedom in their own country, berated and cursed the salts at every possibility.

There was a knock on the door. Narrowing his eyes Aubrey shouted for the owner of the knock to open the door. Blakeney, his eager features searching for Aubrey, stepped over the threshold before closing the door behind you.

"Sir, it's the prisoners, sir." Blakeney's eyes were alive and keen, his words tumbling out of his mouth quickly. "They've turned on the doctor, sir."

"Mr. Blakeney," began Aubrey, but was interrupted by a second knock on the door. Before he had a chance to invite this visitor in too Jack looked in amazement as the door was thrust open and his second lieutenant burst forth.

"Mr Mowett – " But it was clear that berating the man for his manners was irrelevant. He was shouldering the French medical surgeon, a prisoner of high prestige and whose manner aboard had been entirely the opposite of the other French captives.

"He's been stabbed, in the stomach sir," breathed Lieutenant Blakeney quickly. "I've sent in Captain Howard to suppress them. I think Dupuytren was trying to calm their…patriotism."

Patriotism. Yes, that is what he had euphemistically called the attitude of the French when he had spoken to his crew. They were yearning their freedom, as were the British who were to be exchanged. They loved their country, as did his men, Aubrey had

"Rest him there, Mr. Mowett." Aubrey pulled two large cushions from his Queen Anne chair onto the oak boards of his cabin floor. "Mr. Blakeney, fetch Hardy, would you?"

"I thank you sir." Guillaume Dupuytren managed as he lowered himself with Mowett's help, onto the cushions. "It will not be long…I think…that we are to leave you. I think you will be…happy…for us to be gone."

"Hardy is a good surgeon, doctor," Aubrey, bent at the knees, came down to Dupuytren's level and smiled at the man. "The best. He is your contemporary, so to speak."

"Indeed, I am aware of Doctor Hardy," replied Dupuytren, pressing his hand to the left side of his chest. "It will be an honour to be treated by one such as he."

Quite right, thought Aubrey as he returned to the other side of his desk. In both respects. I will be glad to be free of the prisoners. And you are to be tended by the best. And when our respective flagships face one another, you will be treating the wounded.

"I am honoured to meet you, Doctor," Aubrey continued. Looking at his second lieutenant he added, "you may go about your duties, Mowett."

"Very good, sir."

"Indeed?" Dupuytren knitting his dark eyebrows together.

"Doctor Stephen Maturin," Aubrey continued. It was important that this man remained alive of any of the prisoners – he was valuable: his safe repatriation meant that more British prisoners would be released in his stead – and therefore Jack's personal responsibility. "I believe you trained together in Paris."

Maturin had often spoken about Dupuyren during long evenings together. Now he the doctor would tell his memories of Aubrey's friend while he was being attended by Hardy. He would then offer the man his cabin – at least that would offer him some security from attack again before they arrived at the French coast.

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He had been making good progress. Having reached the border between France and Spain the master spy had crossed into Andorra, mainly as a diversionary tactic but also because he had met the Bishop of Urgell before.

Having listened to the man's grievances and complaints against the French government because of its interests in Andorra's co-title, had helped the Bishop to gain support from Catalonia to help create an inconvenient diversion to Bonaparte's army. He would gain a reasonable welcome here, a full stomach and possibly even intelligence to the location of any amassing of British troops.

A bitter, but necessary step, he knew. He owned property of sorts in Catalonia. The temptation to use a few days to renew his acquaintance there. But he hadn't a few days – he barely had the time to visit Urgell.

Once he had located the army he must ingratiate himself into the officer ranks. He knew slightly more about the British army than the navy, but even then his knowledge was slight. Nevertheless he must find out the information he needed in order to make his next move. He had to make it work: he must find a way.

But for now, as the precipitous castle perched on a rocky outcrop that was the Bishop's palace came into view, good company and even better food awaited him and, gratefully, these indulgences took precedence in his mind as his weary legs bore him onwards.

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…Stephen Maturin…Il est mort…

I struggle with English at the best of times, thought Harris to himself: so how sure am I that I've just heard what I think I've heard? He hoped he was wrong, but Harris had a horrible feeling that he wasn't.

Matthew Harris had found it difficult to keep the former surgeon's name from his mind since he had heard it spoken in a babble of French between the two men who had walked by. He had recognised one at least: tall and thin, the man, whose words had been twisted and devious, had been the one to give him the choice of telling him all he knew and being freed, or prison and eventually death.

What did he know about anything? Yes, he had been in both the British Navy as well as in the King's Own Rifles, but he was a footman, a simple worker, nothing more. Nothing would convince the man otherwise, of course, and it had taken a burning for him to express convincingly enough to the man that he was ignorant of a great deal.

Food had been brought to the dim, dank dungeon on twice since Cicely had been taken away – one plate at a time. Food for one. He wasn't expecting her back, at least not yet. Harris moved further towards the dull light which was penetrating the corridor again. Morning had arrived again and with it, more prisoners.

They seemed to be civilians this time; none of them were dressed in a particular uniform or style. They had been accompanied by one of the French soldiers who had taken him to the tall man and, because they were already shackled, appeared to be being moved from one place to another.

Perhaps they too were to be released, as he had chosen to be. Perhaps it would even be that day. Harris moved uncomfortably: his shirt was now sticking to his back where his wound was now healing.

Where was Cicely now? They had surely found out that she was a woman. How would the thin man deal with that? Would she be freed too, or would her fate be different? Or worse? Even though he thought that she had been stupid in so many ways, he had found the girl likeable and genuine. Harris hoped they would meet again, even if it did mean they were both in prison. And then he could at least find a fitting way to break to her the news he had had the misfortune to overhear…

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Cicely's treatment in the large prison building had been nothing less than civilised. With great mindfulness Joseph Fouche had himself attended the rooms in which she had been confined to ascertain her level of comfort. Being used to far less than the moderate surroundings he had provided Cicely had replied to the positive.

And that was the last time she saw the man. Cicely had spent the remainder of her time contemplating the future, feeling the knot of tension in her stomach that told her that if she did not succeed Stephen would die. She knew that one wrong move, one false step, would be the end of the both of them.

The guard who had dragged her from the cell that she and Harris had shared two or three days before had brought her food and clothing – the former was something which could actually be described as food, not the homogeneous mush which masqueraded as such in the lower jail cells. The latter had filled her very heart with both joy and apprehension – they were the breeches and tunic of a seaman.

The guard had been very stiff in his manner too – polite but brief in his interactions with her and, had there not been a small window which overlooked a courtyard Cicely may have gone mad with uneasiness at the undertaking before her. The French soldiers, servants and the occasional prisoner being marched across the cobbles had kept her mind apart from the none too distant future.

As she dressed, Cicely realised she was missing something. The undergarments which accompanied the beautiful dress that she had been hitherto compelled to wear were entirely unsuitable for a mizzenlad, not least because they did nothing to disguise her breasts – just the opposite in fact. So when the guard had entered the room while she was systematically destroying a beautiful and expensive garment it was testament to his professionalism that he turned on his heel and left immediately, knocking on the door half an hour later before re-entering.

Cicely was now herself again, that is, she was Robert Young. Or rather, she was not. Fouche had, in his last meeting with her, pointed out that there may be several questions the British may ask her to ascertain her credibility as a prisoner, such as her place of birth, age and so on.

Whatever pseudonym she chose must be sound or questions may be asked. And, of course, Robert Young would not be that wise for, apart from a record in the logbook of the "Surprise" no other record of this young man existed.

The guard took Cicely through the doorway and along a corridor. The rooms she had occupied were on approximately the second floor of the prison building so it did not surprise her that she had to descend some steps. Out of the ground floor door Cicely found herself walking upon the cobbles which she had witnessed others crossing not an hour before but this time with other people, some in tired, distressed uniform, others in workaday clothing.

And not just men – here and there were a smattering of women holding tightly to the hands of young children or, in a few cases, babes in arms. Clearly the French Revolutionary policy of taking any of the enemy they could find had paid off. Or perhaps not, judging my the numbers – so many people to feed and account for.

At the large metal gate which stood between the end of the cobbled courtyard and a rough stone area other men dressed as she was were being shepherded together. The guard pushed her in the direction of this crowd, said something quickly but indistinctly to the two officers who were clearly in charge of this group before looking at Cicely again and turning away. The look said it all – thank God I haven't got to look after you any more.

She turned to follow the soldier's retreating steps before looking past the group of men, through the gaps in the gate and outside. The rough stone-laden area became smoother and dropped a little – it was a quay area and beyond it ships, of all types, were anchored. They were British ships and they were a sight to behold!

Around her men who were obviously destined to be working in lowly positions upon some of these vessels clearly thought so too and many were goggling at the fleet, chattering to their neighbours, tones of hopefulness and joy at their forthcoming repatriation. Just ahead of them all was, of course, the flagship. Bold in her markings, and more glorious than her depiction in oil painting that hung in Jack Aubrey's cabin, she stood proud, as a woman in her prime might do, her hair loose and her face beaming with happiness.

Cicely was so close, she knew. Not far from her destination, and her task. It would just be a case of making sure she boarded the correct ship and, by the sound of the conversations around her of the ever-growing seamen, the competition might be stiff. She would have to think –

"…Cicely! CICELY!..."

On hearing her name Cicely turned and looked back at the large prison building, searching for the owner of the voice. It didn't take her long to find them – being led up some steps adjacent the oak door from which she had herself emerged was Matthew Harris, somewhat bedraggled and hunched in stature, but nonetheless his cheerful face beaming in her direction.

Cicely felt her heart pound. Of course! The group of men who he was with would be brought over to the ever-increasing mass of seamen and he too would be freed. How good to see him again.

She watched as Harris's group was stopped when they all reached the top of the steps and assembled into a line. She could see him mouthing words to her which, due to the gusty autumn wind, she could not catch.

"Harris!" Cicely shouted back, but the breeze took it. And it was just as well, for one of the officers who was guarding her group had raised his hand as if to lash out in response for her talking. Cicely shrank back, silent, but looking at her friend. Never mind, he would be over there soon enough.

But they weren't. Instead of heading towards them the men, possibly a score or perhaps a few more, were led to the right and through a now open gateway behind a high wall. She saw Harris try to shout to her again but was prodded severely in the side. Why were they going that way? Surely this group too would be joining them to be released?

At the same time the iron gate before her group was opened by one of the officers. The men surged out onto the quayside. Already some of the British ships had wharfed and were unloading people, presumably French prisoners as part of the exchange. These men were being herded to one side by other officers and her group were made to form a line to the left as they were marched through into the cobbled courtyard behind them.

Cicely followed the line of men with her eyes before turning bodily. She saw the last of Harris's group go through behind the tall white gate and it shut behind her. Perhaps there were too many people, she surmised. That would make sense – once the French had disembarked that would leave room for the British to –

But before she had time to finish her reasoning in her mind, the sound of gunshots from the wall behind her made her jump. Some of the British prisoners screamed, most turned in the direction of the firing.

They had shot the men…? Before Cicely had time to reason the group of men were being ushered towards another dockside to the left. Cicely's mind clicked into place as she saw the letters of the ship before her. Surprise. She was to board the Surprise? 

She looked up to the quarterdeck where, from the other side, the main deck, she had seen Captain Aubrey march so many times. She expected to see him again but there were only marines who had clearly been in charge of delivering the French prisoners.

Catching sight of Captain Howard Cicely's heart began to pound – she was to be reunited with the Surprise: _her_ ship, the one she had fought for so long to board, where she had lived and worked among the crew as an equal. Where she had fallen in love, lost her child…had so many memories. The ship she had again put her efforts into finding again.

Here it was, but now she needed to be aboard a different one.

_That _one – the flagship Victory which was berthed adjacent. Cicely's heart beat in her chest once more as another group of men, clearly destined for Victory were ushered alongside her. Her group were made to stop. That was her chance. She kept on walking, pushing past the men who had bunched up, waiting to be let aboard the Surprise.

Unprepared for the jostling, some of the men turned and Cicely surged forward. A man behind her tried to hold onto her clothing but ended up thumping the man in front of her on the neck. In the confusion, this second man turned, thumping the first man. Cicely ducked behind the second man and the few men who were behind her spread out into the line of other seamen who were heading towards the Victory.

It was now or never. Cicely pushed forward again and forced her way into the line. A couple of men behind her now were being pushed away by the confusion of men who were surrounding the now-brawling pair. She refused to look back as more shots were fired, this time from riflemen aboard the Surprise. The sound made her feel sick at the fate of Matthew Harris, but she kept her eyes forward until the new group of men were left before the flagship.

Marines from the "Victory" had now taken command of the men and had made the men form a line parallel to the quayside edge. Cicely could hear names being said at regular intervals, but she didn't look round. She knew that the names were being entered into the Victory's logbook and that those already having given theirs had been sent aboard. Eventually the officer, a blonde-haired man with blue eyes and a stern gaze stood before her.

"Name?"

Here it was. She was to be Robert Young no longer. Cicely swallowed.

"Stephen Maturin."

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A/N: For those of you who have quite rightly corrected me Thomas Hardy was not Nelson's surgeon of course, he was Captain aboard the Victory at the time of the Battle of Trafalgar.


	15. Victory

Jack Aubrey watched as the men, both old and new, went to their new duties. How pleased he was to be in service again as Surprise sailed behind Victory on their return voyage to Portsmouth. And equally, how glad he was to be rid of the French prisoners. Rude, hostile and understandably partisan – it had been difficult to maintain good spirits in his men, have them remain courteous and well-mannered in return.

Mercifully Dupuytren had made a full recovery. On docking at Yport, where the prisoners had been exchanged, he had thanked Aubrey for his hospitality, and almost immediately, been taken into custody by French soldiers. Jack knew that the French, for their hostile, aggressive manner, were likely to release their returning men without much of a fuss - that was the French way.

It had been a difficult political exchange between the British ships and the French soldiers. Mistrust on all sides had delayed the berthing of the ships to unload the French prisoners and it had taken Collingwood himself to depart Victory and speak to the Major who had been co-ordinating the British prisoners in order for the standoff to be resolved.

Turning on the quarterdeck to look back at the enemy country Aubrey breathed again. He was glad it was all over, if truth be told. Aubrey had felt the relief course through him once the prisoners had been taken aboard, once the ropes tethering them to France had been thrown aboard and relief had given way almost immediately to uncertainty.

The prisoners who were returning to Portsmouth with them were a diverse lot: sailors yes, and soldiers; women, men, some children, even. The French, seemingly, had been as indiscriminate in their incarceration of British as by their number – far more British seemed to been returned than the Royal Naval ships had left in their stead. Most, Surprise included, were very full and he would be glad to seem many of the ex-prisoners returned to Portsmouth and he could reorganise his crew.

Descending the steps from the quarterdeck and onto the main deck, Aubrey watched the hustle and bustle aboard, all deftly co-ordinated by his officers. There had been an inundation of volunteers and all were welcome amongst Aubrey's men.

Turning, Jack looked at the closed door of his cabin, taking the handle firmly before pushing on it. Clearly amongst the ex-prisoners assisting their rescue ship was a matter of pride which further bolstered their patriotism. There had been no shortage of men volunteering for even the most menial of roles and, for once, Jack had had the pick of those with experience.

Stepping inside he made to sit down when the door was rapped upon firmly. Jack looked up from the paper with the Admiralty stamp in the corner.

"Enter." Moments later, his pursed lips widened into a grin, as he added, "Tom! Come in, come in!" Aubrey half-rose and gestured towards his Queen Anne chair as his ex-first lieutenant stood before him. Shabbier and rougher round the edges, Tom Pullings had not lost his beaming smile and joviality of spirit. The last time Jack had seen the man he had just promoted him to Captain aboard the "Acheron", the ship he had so cunningly ensnared just off the Galapagos Islands. Now, some of the events of his colleague's story that had been hitherto unknown to Aubrey were revealing themselves.

"Thank you," Pullings replied, nodding at the neck. "It's good to see you too, Jack." And Tom Pullings proceeded to tell Aubrey the events of the previous eighteen months.

The Acheron had docked under Pullings at Valparaiso to take on supplies and rest his men. He had then taken the ship around the Horn and into the South Atlantic. He had ascertained that the ship's surgeon was formerly the Acheron's captain in disguise and had promptly imprisoned him in the hold. As Pullings recounted this part Aubrey found himself admiring the ingenuity of the plan.

Apart from that, his captaincy had been relatively uneventful – he had followed his orders as ascribed by Aubrey; he had managed his men and encouraged them. The French crew had co-operated too: he had given them all a choice, either to swear allegiance to the British Crown or to be imprisoned for the duration of the voyage.

Some had chosen the latter but several had been Anglicised. Aubrey had not been surprised: they were simple men and their priorities were work and wages. Republican ideals did not fill empty stomachs.

And then, a storm hit the soon-to-be HMS Charlotte as they passed into the Celtic Sea. Pullings had organised his men, but they were not well trained or efficient. They had done their best in the storm – as Tom Pullings recounted this part of his tale Aubrey could tell the incident was heavy on man's mind – but the gale had ripped the main mast from the deck and caused the ship to capsize. His men, his new crew had perished – the last he had seen of the ship it had been rolling on its side as it was lashed with thirty-foot-high waves, driving rain and lightning. Tom Pullings had then awoken in the custody of French Republican soldiers and had been there until his release that day.

"I believed all of my men were lost Jack," Pullings concluded. "I had been thrown clear of the main deck. I was surprised…delighted to see several other crew members on the quayside this day."

"A blessing it is, indeed," agreed Aubrey, pacing round to the near-side of his desk. "That the Lord Admiral had organised such a feat of tactical diplomacy. That we have claimed many men back this day. Would you care to partake in a ration?" Jack Aubrey continued his traverse to the port-side of his office, picking up the rum decanter with one hand.

"Indeed, thank you," replied Tom Pullings. "It seems like an age since I have indulged."

"How ill-fated for such a misfortune to play out – and on your first command too. Were you resources poor? I know that some of the woodwork could have done with time and a good brush. And, of course, the hull to be coppered, now that would surely have saved the ship a good deal of time in repairs."

Aubrey stepped closer to Pullings, holding towards his latter first-lieutenant a glass of rum. Tom Pullings took it, throwing it straight down, a sign of politeness in the Service. Aubrey, who had the decanter in his other hand proffered more spirit which Pullings had readily accepted. So the young man's unfortunate circumstances explained why Surprise had been included in the plans of the Admiralty, that Aubrey's ship was required to meet up with the Acheron and why the plans changed so suddenly.

"I would tend to agree," replied Pullings. "I have had time, more than enough time, to consider that dreadful night. Perhaps the ship was not in her prime; perhaps we were not as slick or efficient under pressure. It could have been an accumulation of both factors…or something else, either directly, or circuitously. All I know is that the disaster happened and though I trusted my crew to follow their orders, which they did; their work did not prevent it." Pullings sagged at the shoulders and looked face-down at the bare oak boards as if the weight of this burden was firmly pressing him down.

"And now you are to depart at Portsmouth," Aubrey prompted. "You can give your account officially to Admiralty House."

"So will many others," replied Pullings. "All officers and middies are to report to their commanding officers or equivalent rating. They will have to employ more secretaries than exist in London, I fancy," he added, smiling wryly.

"That would be Commodore Reedy," replied Aubrey, trying to repress a grin.

"Indeed," nodded Pullings before draining his glass of spirit, appearing not to notice Jack's mirth. "And hope that there will still be a shortage of captains…that I may be in command of my own ship again."

"You will," replied Aubrey brightly, "of that I am confident."

"And the Surprise? I imagine the good doctor's naturalistic finds are the most excitement you've seen," he added. Were that was so, thought Aubrey solemnly. Were that so. And he proceeded to tell Tom Pullings of the recent history of the ship beginning with Cicely's departure to Mrs Aubrey and her subsequent disappearance through to Hardy replacing Stephen as the Surprise's doctor, all of which Aubrey told with great candour and which Pullings accepted in professional astonishment.

Once Jack had finished Tom Pullings got to his feet, handing Jack the glass his former Captain and friend had proffered. "I must continue with the duties your men have assigned to us."

Aubrey smiled: how like Pullings, a naval man akin to himself, that he would undertake the menial tasks that his middies had organised for the ex-prisoners to carry out in return for their journey home. More credit to the man that he would be accepting orders from not only men inferior in rank to himself but also those who had previously been under _his _command.

"Well," concluded Aubrey, leaning against his table. "It's good to see you, Tom. I am just sorry that it had to be in such circumstances."

"Yes, sir – Jack," Pullings corrected himself. As it had been Jack himself who had promoted him and, as yet, he had not had the rank either confirmed or repealed, Tom knew that the protocol was to directly address anyone of the same rank by their first name. "Good to see you." He saluted.

"You too, Tom. Good luck."

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On her hands and knees Cicely put her effort into scraping the non-existent salt and dirt from the decking planks of the Royal Navy's flagship. Like with all of the ships bearing ex-military and naval prisoners their time as they crossed the channel from liberty to home was taken carrying out menial, unskilled tasks adecks.

The ship had sailed in haste after her group had boarded and the rescued prisoners had been left standing together on the main deck, waiting for instruction. Cicely had looked above her, at the tall masts, the wide decks and took in the quality that was the Victory, a first rate ship of the line and the Navy's flagship Glorious indeed. It had not been long before they had been put to work, however.

As the bristles raked the woodgrain Cicely's mind veered between thoughts of her beloved Stephen, ascertaining the identity of the former captain of the Acheron and knowing that, despite her supreme efforts, the ship was bearing her towards Portsmouth, to her home country where her absence in both her social and navigational arenas had been, at the very least, keenly noted.

So she had to find a way to remain aboard. Cicely had heard other mizzenlads talking about the officers, that they were departing the ship and had to give an account of their time in prison in the enemy country, presumably to shed light, however small, on French strategy or organisation. What would happen to the unskilled lads – deckhands, loblollies, mizzenlads – was unclear but what was had been the lack of Victory's own of these men. She had to make sure that her current run of good fortune didn't end at the Solent.

But there was a measure of hope then. Cicely breathed out with the brushing action as her mind rested briefly on Stephen's face. It had been tormenting her since she had been told by Fouche of his residence within the prison in which she had been. Where had he been? For all she knew he might have been close to her. What had he done to him? Surely by now, as the Frenchman knew that he was a spy, he had been tortured.

She had tried not to let her mind dwell on the details but only on the moment that he would be released, once she had located and…_incapacitated_ the ex-Acheron captain. That she would actually have to kill the man was another thing Cicely was trying not to allow her mind to dwell on – surely if she could ensure he did not attack Lord Nelson before any battle the Victory and the French fleet were to engage in, this would be enough to allow Fouche's plan to come to fruition –

"Boy! BOY!"

Cicely raised her back and looked up. Towards her, past a couple of smaller boys, the midshipman for that particular area of the deck was pacing towards her. He looked a little like Will Blakeney – small, impish features and tousled hair – but this young man was several years older, taller and thinner, and with a scowl to his features.

"Boy!" He leaned over Cicely and shouted the word at her. "You are not going fast enough! Quicker, quicker I say!" Cicely bent her head quickly in submission. The last thing she needed was to bring attention to herself.

"Quicker!" the man shouted. His boots were in her eye-line – clean, sparkling boots which matched the highly organised, pristine appearance of the flagship. Nothing about this ship hinted at anything other than perfection and perfection achieved through productivity, standards and hard work.

"Scrub, boy, scrub!"

Cicely kept her head down and tried to look as if she was working harder than she had been just now. The middie was standing close to her and Cicely could imagine his scowling face looking disapprovingly at what she was doing. Had she been able to scour the ship from hull to top-mast, from bowsprit to stern in five minutes that still would probably not earn more than a wordless nod. Just as a puckish urge to polish the man's boots with her deck-brush arose the midshipman started to move, walking off behind her, presumably to shout at the next mizzenlad who had not been working hard enough. Not surprisingly…

"Boy! Quickly…!"

Cicely drove the coarse brush bristles into the woodgrain again as her mind drifted to her pressing matter. Harris, she remembered, had told her about the Acheron, and how it had been sabotaged by the French aboard. That the former captain had disguised himself as the surgeon and organised a mutiny. That they had chosen a storm to cover their attack. What else had he told her…? Cicely cast her mind back to the conversation she had had with poor Matthew Harris…had he ever described the man…? Had she ever seen him herself? She had been aboard Acheron when the fighting ensued. Neither of these avenues of thought ended with anything positive or useful.

The most important thing was to stay aboard, though. If she was reassigned to another ship, even as a mizzenlad, she would not be able to locate this assassin. She would have to make a good case for herself.

But then, what would happen when she did become on of the Victory's crew? She had called herself Stephen Maturin – what had she been thinking? Cicely knew he could not be Robert Young any more, especially as now they were heading back to England. But to call herself Maturin? That had been crazy: the victory was efficient and she knew that there would be no ducking the ship's log. She would have to come up with enough realistic information to satisfy the officer in charge of the crew – even if all of it was fictitious? And what if this ex-French captain, or anyone for that matter, knew Stephen?

"Boy!" The screeching of the word behind her caused interrupted Cicely's contemplations, causing her to kneel upwards and turn but it wasn't her that the middie was yelling at: the deckhand descending the steps between the quarter deck and the main was – well, someone she knew. Someone she knew very well indeed.

Cicely felt herself smiling. It was a faint glimmer of hope in the gloom and uncertainty. In the company of the scowling midshipman, and being berated for something or other, James Fillings was making his way past her.

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Having enjoyed the brief respite in Andorra the spy had used the cover of darkness to cross the well-defended border into Catalonia. This region of Spain was a part of him, the time he had spent there, the work he had done preparing. All his training in London would now be challenged to the full in this part of his plan and the spy considered the valuable information that his long-since-departed equal had provided him.

Another man may have felt guilt at the manner he had obtained the information and especially what he was to do with it but not he. This was a matter of espionage and this was a matter of pride.

The aim was simple – he must ascertain the factions against Bonaparte and concentrate them with the strategy of allowing the British military a foothold on the peninsula.

The plan was fraught with problems, however. There were currently pockets of British regiments around Spain – they had been sent there when Spain had originally allied itself with Britain against the French Republic. All had looked bright until Bonaparte's forces flooded over the border and the Spanish monarchy, the dying Hapsburg line, had swiftly changed sides.

Other regiments – Austrian, Prussian, also remained and were being slowly driven out of the country. It was his job to convince them of a safe haven in Catalonia – the region's denizens, bent on independence, were against Castile where the government was trying to hold together a weak union of provinces – and provide a united front. The Catalan people had fought Napoleon's forces off the Mediterranean coast from the day they had heard the Government had allied with Bonaparte. It was the perfect location and, once together, a counter-attack could be mounted.

How this would happen, in what form would remain to be seen – the regiments were, clearly, still under the orders of their respective armies, or contact had been severed and they had been left stranded. It would be down to his skill as an agent of espionage and his charisma to inspire loyalty until the British Army arrived. At least he was far from Paris, Fouche, and _that _wretched business.

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Completely off the wall!

.


	16. Arise

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"What is that fellow playing at!" Thomas Johns, private secretary to Prime Minister stood before Henry Gordon, clearly trying to maintain his composure. The man had been sent by William Pitt (the younger) to demand an explanation for the letter that Gordon had drafted on behalf of the Lord Admiral informing the government of a change in military strategy.

"He…he goes against the express agreement of the Cabinet; he risks British ships for…what?"

"Results," replied Gordon, stepping towards his desk. The brusque tone of Johns was interspersed with doubt – magnifying the uncertainty of Charles James Fox himself no doubt; the former opposition minister had a deep dislike of Nelson and Thomas Johns had been sent by Pitt to seek firm clarity in the Lord Admiral's strategic plans.

"Lord Nelson is charged, is he not, to fight the French to the best of his command, under terms agreed with the Third Coalition Alliance, is he not?" Having failed to make an appointment with Gordon, Thomas Johns had arrived unannounced demanding answers from him. Under such difficult circumstances Henry Gordon was having difficulty keeping his ice-cold demeanour.

"He is to use whatever wit, skill and ability in his arsenal to defeat the enemy?"

"He is!" Johns exhaled sharply and looked away from Gordon. Clearly whatever meeting he had just come from at Downing Street it had been fraught…difficult and the tension was spilling over into his office. From a Wedgwood teacup Gordon sipped India tea, watching Johns over the rim momentarily as the man tried to hold his composure under such obvious duress.

The pause was enough to underline Johns' own reply to Gordon's question but the Lord Admiral's private secretary felt sorry for the man: it was hardly the fault that Honest Billy had got himself into such a political tangle and as such, into a corner regarding Lord Nelson.

And it was a change to speak to a man of similar role about his master, rather than the frequent irrelevant interruptions he had had to spend his time over recently. Not least, the regular demands from Toby Hamilton as to an update on the Cicely Hollum business, who had, in turn, been sent a man called Buckley directly from Wigg himself.

It had interested Gordon at the time, all those months ago, when the desire to locate Miss Hollum would have suited both the needs of Wickham and himself. It was his responsibility to prevent scandal in the Royal Navy and he was at pains to make sure nothing dishonourable would be brought against the service.

Yet, the spectre of shame which had threatened to hang over the Navy with the scandal of Miss Hollum being married to another man rather than the one her father had intended had long since passed and the situation was to him a little more than an inconvenience that was brought to his door every two or three weeks.

"The Prime Minister demands only the best from the First Sealord," Gordon added. "We all wish the swift end of Bonaparte. Perhaps you could report back to the Prime Minister that he should trust his own instincts." He watched as his words found their target. It had been the younger Pitt who had put his faith in Nelson in the first place. Johns' face seemed to relax a little.

"He does go against the grain, Gordon. He plans to sail out into the Atlantic, for what? To play a game of chase with the French Navy? His style has to be said is unorthodox."

"Indeed," agreed Gordon. It was unorthodox. But precisely who had said it to be, Henry Gordon was unsure. Of what he was sure, it wasn't Johns, or even Pitt where Johns' words originated and a lot of politics was bound up in the answer that Gordon was to give.

"We are dealing with a military genius in our enemy," he continued carefully, taking a seat behind his desk and offering the seat opposite to Johns, who either ignored or did not actually notice the gesture. "Bonaparte has brazenly trounced several strong countries, causing our alliance with several of them. What we need now is unorthodox in order to triumph."

Again, a further couple of moments were needed for his words to be absorbed by Thomas Johns, perhaps to allow his mind to interpret Gordon's words into those more acceptable to those in the Cabinet whose interest the man was really representing.

"Indeed, indeed," nodded Johns. "We need to fight Bonaparte as best we can – the threat of invasion is all too real." There. That was Pitt talking.

"Is there anything else which is concerning you, Mr. Johns, regarding my Lord Admiral?" Gordon got to his feet. "Feel free to return if you have anything you wish to ask in the future. There is no need to make an appointment." Because you didn't this time, he added, but to himself.

"No, no. I believe your answers are more than sufficient." Johns concluded, nodding solemnly to Gordon. And, deft turn, Pitt's private secretary left as swiftly as he had arrived.

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Cicely lay in hammock and examining the planked ceiling above her. In a few minutes four bells would be rung and she would have to be up and to her station.

She breathed out with relief again, something she had done several times since "Victory" had departed Portsmouth harbour. The flagship had not tarried in its task of landing the officers and men of rank. Scores of men flooded onto the quayside and not just from the Victory - Cicely remembered her heart hammering in her chest as she looked at the people descending the port. From other ships women and children were disembarking too, being organised and, it appeared, being counted and recorded by the officers there.

Cicely wondered just how many prisoners the French had taken, and how many they had kept. How many they had shot…

Then the flagship had hauled anchor and had sailed out into the Solent. Once afloat, the middies of the Victory had set to work redistributing those men, including Cicely, who remained and integrating them into the fleet.

How easy it had been to remain aboard! Had she had known in advance, would Cicely have worried so much? She had been concerned that, were she made to disembark too, that she would not be able to reboard, or even get back to any ship at all. Then she would have had to lie to the quayside officers and hope another cover would hold up to scrutiny. But now she hadn't to worry – by luck or fortune, she had, with very little effort on her part, become a member of the Victory's crew.

The Isle of Wight had been in her edge of vision as the tall, mean-faced midshipman who had berated her lack of effort in scrubbing the deck had collected the new men's names again, cross-referencing them with the original, hastily compiled list which had been made on the quayside at Yport.

The new men had been made to line up, had their height and stature assessed and recorded. The rest of the crew had gone about their business and those who had been seen by a lieutenant and a shorter, rounder-faced middie were sent immediately to their new positions.

Cicely could determine what information she needed to come up with as she listened to the midshipman talk to the men in the line before her: name, place of birth, previous ships of service. She had already given her name as Stephen Maturin and it occurred to Cicely as the men neared that she knew relatively little about her husband.

She knew, for example, that he had spent his early life in Catalonia, being cared for by his grandmother before being sent to Ireland as a young man and training in Dublin as a doctor. In which places these might have been however Cicely did not know and she had brazened out the brief questions that the lieutenant had asked her and she had claimed confusion when she had been asked which on which ships she had previously served.

Thankfully the physical examination was brief and vague; her posture was a source of comment as was her height, but the midshipman simply recorded the information given and moved to the next man, directing her to the ropes under the mid-mast. The lowliest role aboard the flagship. Cicely smiled to herself. She had become a mizzenlad again and as such invisible.

And now she was on her feet again, five days since their departure from Portsmouth. The work had been steady; Victory was heading west and seemed to be ahead of a couple of dozen British warships. Where they were going was uncertain, at least to the lowly seaman who was only supposed to follow orders but to Cicely it felt as if something was rising – slowly, infinitesimally slowly, on the path to somewhere…something.

She made her way onto the deck, trying to avoid the officers as she scuttled to her place above the sails. Unlike on the Surprise the Victory didn't run a pair system – all the mizzenlads were expected to be able to operate in any of the roles in the masts high above the deck, pulling in sheets or tying in sails; letting out or hauling ropes.

Victory was far larger than any of the ships Cicely had ever worked on too and she had had to learn quickly above this first-rater her place as well as her role. As such she had given very little thought to her actual role there – to locate the former French captain and stop him from assassinating Lord Nelson.

Looking up into the bright October sunlight she paused momentarily as she waited for the other mizzenlad who would be assigned to work below her that morning to appear next to her. She would be climbing up and down the rigging on this shift and she couldn't get started until she knew who he was – Cicely would have to be able to communicate with him from a could of hundred feet above the deck so she would have to know who she was to communicate with.

A small, lithe lad who had boarded the Victory with her prisoner group from Yport stood next to her. Bill Gibbons. Cicely had worked with him before, the first day after leaving Portsmouth. Bill had his hammock close to hers and he worked deftly and accurately despite his size, unlike his friend, Philip Dixon, who had been assigned the bowsprit that morning.

She had worked with Dixon the day before and Cicely knew from that day's experience that wouldn't be long until poor Philip was on the deck. Despite their short time afloat Philip Dixon had earned himself a reputation for clumsiness.

A whistle sounded which marked the start of their shift. Cicely smiled as Bill looked up the length of the main mast.

"Morning, Bill." Cicely smiled briefly at her mast-partner.

"Mornin' Stephen," said Bill in a hushed whisper, as was his manner. "You should be OK up there today, it doesn't look too windy."

"Hope so," Cicely replied as she gripped the wood of the mast with her hands. Behind Bill she glanced as James Fillings walked by on his way to the deck duties he was carrying out that morning. She turned back and jumped towards the mast, using her knees to make it up to the first spar of the mast.

"'ere!" shouted Bill, throwing her the first rope which she needed to tie through the bottom of the first sail. Cicely caught it deftly and laced it through the eyelet. Her heart was pounding but not from the work. Her friend, someone she had shared so much on the Surprise was there.

Ciclely wanted, as she had wanted since she had known he was aboard, to tell him she was there, to seek the comfort she had known when they had been each others' pair. But could she? _Should_ she? And if she did, did she trust herself not to tell James her reason for being aboard? For the moment, Cicely resolved not to.

Another whistle roused her from her thoughts and she looked down at Bill who was pulling the excess of the rope that she was securing through its rowlock. She would have to move fast if she were to peg out the rest of the sail so it could fill with as much of the wind that was behind them.

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	17. Arising

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Captain Jack Aubrey patrolled the Surprise's deck. All was running well, or so it seemed. Not that he wholly believed in luck himself, Aubrey could tell in the manner that they carried out their work that his crew felt luck was running their way.

They were sailing with their numbers were replenished: all the men felt an ease to their burden – since berthing in Italy for repairs until they had been able to take on more crew his men had been stretched. Now, with relatively easy duties to perform they were working together well; the new additions to their number, many of whom had served before, had fitted in seamlessly. In Portsmouth too enough time had been had for his crew to have an evening ashore and they were able to restock their stores. Good fortune indeed.

He neared the bowsprit, stepping past Hargreaves, a deckhand he had acquired through the prisoner exchange, a short-built, stocky youth who saluted the Captain quickly. The Surprise was sailing west, beating the wind, close-hauled. With such wild energy as the gusty autumnal blusters were blowing that night his men were having to anticipate every roll and pitch.

And they were mastering it, playing the turns and twists, enabling the ship to be as sprightly as ever Jack knew that she could be. He leaned forward, past the yard and let the cold wind rush through his hair. Along with more than two-dozen other ships of the Navy the Surprise was in an enviable position: the Surprise had been chosen to sail with the fleet of the flagship. An honour and privilege to Aubrey personally and news which had buoyed the spirits of the seamen, middies and his officers.

His eyes fixed momentarily on the rigging outline of the Victory. It had been Stephen's plan to board the ship replacing Hardy and surgeoning for the Lord Admiral. God-willing his plan had been fortuitously and, despite the uncertainty his friend had expressed when he last spoke to him all those months ago, in his heart Aubrey felt that it would have and that, a couple of miles in front of him Stephen was aboard.

Turning with his back to the wind Aubrey made his way back across the fo'c'sle and down onto the main deck. Behind them, also beating the headwind and much further behind were some ships of the French line. It had been unclear when the sun began to set, as the fleet passed Lizard Point, whether the French flagship Bucentaure was amongst them. What was certain however that the dozen or so rigs behind them were following. According to plan.

His orders had come swiftly and, unusually for naval instruction, directly from the Victory, presumably from Lord Nelson's own hand. The ships that were now in fleet had, the orders explained, been given the same command: to follow the flagship past Ireland and into the Atlantic. There were enough of them to attract the attention of the French navy and, like flies to jam would be attracted to the British flagship and attendant warships.

They were to sail in an unhurried, relaxed manner so as to deceive the enemy into thinking they could be unprepared and, once in pursuit, the Victory could then lead the enemy to a place of her choosing and engage them on her terms, enacting what Aubrey could only presume was a strategy Nelson himself had devised for it followed neither protocol nor precedent.

It was Aubrey's guess, though it wasn't his place to postulate, that they were to somehow eventually engage the French near Spain, a weaker opponent and unlikely to have a good deal of military reinforcement, unlike France. British armed forces had once landed in the north of the country and had suffered from Spain's change of alliance, causing them to be hounded by the Spanish militia. He had heard Stephen talk about British forces in Catalonia and all over Spain from the time when France was Spain's enemy. Perhaps, were the battalions to be reunited in some manner, Lord Nelson would take advantage of this in some way.

It was a pity that Pullings could not be sailing with them. It had long been the young man's dream to captain a ship of his own, something Aubrey had, just over eighteen months before, been able to help him achieve.

Jack was sure however that it wouldn't take him long to regain the position again – it was hardly his ex-first Lieutenant's failing for the misfortune that had befallen the Acheron. Indeed, Tom Pullings could not have known that he would encounter a mutiny, a storm of Poseidonic proportions, loss of his ship and capture and torture by the enemy?

At least that explained Aubrey's conflicting orders: why his original orders had directed him to meet with the "Charlotte", the name proposed by Pullings and accepted by the Admiralty, as was tradition, and why he had been delayed in Vlissingen for so long.

Presumably the wreck of the ship and subsequent loss of life had been a blow to the Admiralty, as it was indeed to Jack himself: respectful silence had been upheld once they reached Portsmouth to mark the demise of the Charlotte.

Reaching the quarterdeck Aubrey scanned the blackness for any signs of either more British warships joining the fleet or French naval vessels following them. There were a few dim white lights but it was difficult to discern whether they were on land or sea – they could equally be lights from the south-west Irish coast.

"Sir." Lieutenant Blakeney's voice interrupted Jack's analysis of their wake. He turned and looked at the lad.

"Ah, Mr. Blakeney. All is well, I trust?"

"Yes sir," he replied, his voice firm. He had been trying, Jack had noticed, to take the energy and excitability out of his tone, as was fitting, the young man (that he was now becoming) had concluded. Whether this self-analysis would extend to limiting his enthusiastic penning of letters home or quitting his abstinence from grog Jack hadn't extended his enquiry when Will Blakeney had first tried out his new vocal expressions before his fellow mizzens (much to their humour).

"We have crossed ten-degrees west, sir." Aubrey exhaled. It was time for a change of course. He turned, glancing towards the direction the fleet was sailing. The starboard light had been taken from the ships in front. This was right.

"Very good, Mr. Blakeney," he acknowledged as Will saluted. "Mr. Mowett?" Will Blakeney hurried awaty and, moments later his other lieutenant stood before him.

"Set a course, west-north-west."

"Very good, sir." The man saluted, his warm eyes on Aubrey.

"West-north-west!" William Mowett called the direction out to the crew and immediately the able seamen manoeuvred the wheel, other seamen scrambled up the masts to haul in and adjust the sails. Mowett hurried down the steps between the quarter- and main decks to verse the operation.

Jack Aubrey smiled. They would sailing away from the Irish coast heading out towards the Azores in ten minutes and, by his calculations, unless they changed course in the next two days or so, would be in America within two weeks!

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Two bells. Cicely opened her eyes and stared into the blackness. It was unusual for her to be woken by the ship's half-hourly bell signals – once off-duty she generally slept solidly. What had aroused her? Cicely sought her mind for a clue.

She had been dreaming about Edward…the dream was coming back to her, his face filled her visual mind as she tried to remember.

Around her, a cough of another crewman in a hammock near her. A lot of bronchial infections, Cicely knew, at this time of year. Had the ship's doctor been treating the men as she new Stephen would have been on the Surprise, such infection would not have spread so quickly.

Stephen.

He had been on her mind that night before she had gone to sleep. Cicely wanted to know that he was safe, alive. That what she was doing wasn't in vain. Another cough, this time in a hammock closer to her. Cicely turned towards the wood of dividing wall, hoping that she didn't succumb. Not that the infection seemed very serious, but she knew it would delay her mission by fogging her mind.

Two bells, pause, one bell. It was the middle of the night; best to get some sleep. Though their duties weren't particularly taxing Cicely guessed that when they encountered the enemy they soon would be. Best to keep her strength. And besides, if she dwelt on her beloved husband's face much more she knew she wouldn't be able to keep in the tears.

What had she been dreaming about?

Edward. He was about thirteen or fourteen; she was eight…she had been playing in the woodlands near the back of their house…she had been playing knights with Frederick Bonner, a boy of a similar age whose family lived on the other side of the woods.

They had broken off some sticks and were duelling with them; Cicely had been Longshanks and Freddie was Simon de Montford. Freddie had, unusually, wrong-footed her and she had run off towards the copse, a denser cluster of trees, one of which she had decided to climb…and from which she could not get back down…

…Freddie had run off…Cicely remembered seeing him disappear and the feeling of fear that she would have to stay up there forever…

…she remembered her heart rising when she had heard her brother's voice calling for her; he had suspected where Cicely had been, even though she knew she wasn't allowed in the copse.

Instead of shouting at her, Cicely remembered Edward climbing up a few branches and the fear she had had of climbing down melted away and she had jumped towards him. Edward had hugged her and, rather than admonishing her for disobeying their father's rules had taken her hand and walked her back towards the outer woods…

…Freddie had come back to find her as they were heading home. Edward had, in his manner, drew the boy's attention to the error of his ways, making him think about how he'd feel if Cicely had come to harm.

In the blackness, the recollection of that summer's day lived again. That was Edward; good-natured, quietly assertive. So many people mistook his pleasant character for softness and his caring manner for weakness. Freddie had never again left her in the woods, or anywhere else. In fact, it had been he who had been the last person she had seen before she carried out her outrageous plan of breaking free of her father.

Freddie had spent a lot of time visiting her a few months before she had gone; he had arrived back to his childhood home on the death of his father and was in the process of establishing a career in the clergy back in Gloucestershire. He had been her beau, of sorts, when she was a child…someone she had imagined, in a child-like manner, that she would be married to and whose house she would be mistress.

Cicely would often laugh at her child-like supposings and forgive her younger self for being so ill-aware of the world and how things worked. Nevertheless, Freddie Bonner was the closest she had come to previous lovers, he and Septimus Quinn, a middie on the first ship she had boarded.

Quinn had been in an alehouse at Chatham the evening before she had managed to gain Robert Young's first sea-going position. Cicely had been in female attire, namely that of her maid which she had stolen when she had set fire to her father's library. She had felt guilty about that because she knew the woman was very poor and it was likely these were her only clothes, other than her nightclothes and that her father would have hardly bothered with her plight.

She had sent some money anonymously to her family in the hope of recompense when she had earned some aboard the schooner. Septimus Quinn had been her first, and only, before Stephen. The night she had spent with him had been done, in part, calculatedly – if ever she were to have found her way back to England then that she was no longer a maiden may wel have been enough to put off Benjamin Wigg.

But it was different with Stephen – she loved him, and that made the difference, she supposed. Part of her, the part that was with her in the evening when she was thinking of God, regretted giving herself so freely to a man she did not know and Cicely felt hot shamed that she had not kept herself for her husband. Her misfortunes – losing Edward, losing her son – could well be attributed to such disgraceful behaviour.

It hadn't really been surprising that there had been other women for Stephen before her, Cicely concluded (not for the first time; the subject had not been far from her mind at the times she had been thinking of Stephen and it had caused her to wake, Cicely knew). But to know she had a name…Diana Villiers…

…what was she like? Rich…? Poor…? Blonde-haired or dark…? Beautiful…? Witty...? What did it matter to her? What did it matter now?

Her thoughts turned to Quinn again – flaxen, wavy hair, round face and bonny features. She had boarded the Fury the next day – he hadn't guessed, no-one had. Cicely had left the ship when it had docked at Cadiz just a fortnight later, when Spain had been an ally of Britain against the new French republic, and joined the crew of the Invincible and of that she had been quite grateful to have put the experience behind her.

Another part of her, a larger part, made her feel what she and Quinn had done was a natural part of life. She had read as much in Zoonomia and in Stephen's notes and though her experience and understanding of science and naturalism was limited, wasn't it more astonishing that, were they like animals in so many ways, that humans were so different, and able to think as she was able to do?

Such thoughts Cicely could barely express to herself not least because they were malformed fragments of ideas that she had in her mind. It was like a shape of something, like steam, or a cloud, which had a vague definition but was impossible to hold. It was a pity she had sent the information she had gleaned from Robert Darwin's copy of "Zoonomia" to Sophie Aubrey. Something such as that would have been such a comfort.

Two bells, pause, two bells.

She had to find the ex-French captain. But how? After all, there were over 800 men aboard, none of whom had stood out yet as being obvious candidates. And as she didn't even know what he looked like…

Cicely awoke as her hammock was being knocked into: clearly the lads around her were rising to their shift. She sat up just as Bill Gibbons grinned in her direction.

"Ste – move yerself! Not like you to be lallyin'!"

"Morning, Bill," she replied, yawning. It was unusual for her not to be first up – often Cicely would be by the open door of the cabin gathering her thoughts, trying to bury those which were darker and more full of dread before the day's shift began. She hauled herself out of her hammock and another mizzenlad promptly occupied it, such as was the practice, and she followed Bill and the others on her shift out onto the main deck.

As she rounded the corner a man knocked into her. The first thing Cicely noticed was that he was a deckhand and she bowed and touched her forehead. Even the difference between lowly ranks was adhered to, above decks, at least. Below, amongst the men, they treated one another equally. Then she noticed that it was James Fillings.

James. The wrench in her heart took hold momentarily, a fight between keeping her identity secret and confiding in her friend.

"Move along!" A midshipman, Harvey, was harrying her to her station. Ahead of her a half-dozen or so other lower-ranking men were climbing up to the mizzen deck. The wind had picked up and there was going to be some tiring work ahead of her.

"Here." The middie pointed to a spot just under the mizzen mast. In front of her was her pair for that shift: Philip Dixon smiled innocently at her. Her heart sank as Bill Gibbons passed by, on his way to the mizzen mast with another lad who worked their duties.

She liked working with Bill – as she had been able to with James, they anticipated one another's actions and compensated for them, thus making the job a little easier. Dixon promptly knocked over the water of a deckhand, undoing all his morning's work. The man's face turned to thunder and she could see him absorbing the curse words which he would have liked to have spat at poor Philip.

"Come on," said Cicely, pulling Dixon's thin frame past the man quickly and taking the end of a rope. "You're up there today."

And then she heard it. A snippet – a snatch. Just a few words. Cicely turned round and looked towards the quarterdeck steps. Two men, both dark haired and tall, both able seamen had been talking to one another. In French.

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	18. Arisen

Henry Gordon, private secretary to Lord Nelson, had carried out his usual morning's activities. While his superior was not, at present, at the Admiralty Gordon did not feel that he should deviate from his normal pattern of duties. He felt this set him apart from other men in his position – he did not slack when his boss's back was turned; his work was always carried out to the letter. He was conscientious and thorough, discreet and sensitive to the needs and wishes of the Lord Admiral. Altogether, a most worthy private secretary. Which was why, Gordon supposed, he had not been replaced.

It worried him then when business was discordant to his routine. This time, it was an issue which Gordon had thought had been long since given up. Not so, by the tone of the missive he was now holding. This time however, it would be harder to shake off than an angry emissary from a nob or the calculated Wickham: Toby Hamilton, William Wickham's superior and foreign secretary to Prime Minister Pitt had sent forth venom and brimstone in literary form on a subject which had, in all honesty, given him several sleepless nights.

Due to the indeterminate length of Wickham's absence Hamilton had felt it necessary to contact him, the letter began, as he needed a thorough update on the current situation of the Navy with regard to Miss Cicely Hollum. He had gone on to detail at length the information that Wickham had already divulged to Gordon and concluded by demanding to know what precisely the Admiralty was doing about it.

Nothing, Gordon had thought flippantly. Since the orders had gone to the captains of the fleets and to the secretaries who worked at both Admiralty House and Chatham, there had been no reports of the names Cicely Hollum or Robert Young having been taken on board or found by the ships, or recorded in any completed logs.

It wasn't as if he had just left it to second-hand reporting either – Gordon had gone to the trouble of inspecting their backlog of reports too – everyone currently aboard a British man-o-war had been accounted for up to the last week where it was practicable: captains were required to send details of their logs back to the Admiralty on a regular basis but obviously those whose missions were many thousands of miles away would be delayed somewhat.

There had been a name which had interested him, however. Stephen Maturin. The spy's name had appeared listed on the Victory's crew list as Wickham had said that it would. Surely Hamilton would not expect him to pursue that line of enquiry when he himself had set the spy to his task? Espionage was vital to the war effort even if Maturin was a Catholic Feinian.

Gordon had read the letter, the terse, demanding words five or six times over and had concluded two things: that Hamilton would not be satisfied with the answer and that he – Henry Gordon – with so much else to do at the present time for Lord Nelson, would spend precious time worrying on the matter. What else was he to do? The woman had been in disguise almost two years before and neither her name nor her pseudonym appeared in any naval crew listing now.

Sitting at his desk Henry Gordon rubbed his temples; set aside Hamilton's letter and picked up a crisp, clean sheet of paper. Then, without pausing, he picked up his best pen and began to write. Half a paragraph in Gordon rubbed his temples again, screwed up the paper and grabbed for another. An hour later, and seven more sheets wasted he got to his feet. Perhaps he should go to see Hamilton instead? A face-to-face meeting might be enough to quell the fire of Hamilton's fury.

Mentally, Gordon imagined the scene that may ensue. Even if the wind was in his favour the outcome didn't look good. He looked for another sheet of paper, and dipped his fountain pen into his India ink and quickly drafted down the information, succinct and to the point. It was the only way: Gordon knew his answer would not go down well. He shook his head to himself as signed the reply before folding it into three. Then he took out a short stick of red wax, held it in front of the candle momentarily before allowing its liquidity to cover the edges of the paper, finally sealing it with the Lord Admiral's crest.

Instead of calling for Gibb to take the letter, Gordon stared at it as if it were noxious. What else could be done? It was hardly his – Gordon's – responsibility to locate this Miss Hollum if she was out of the jurisdiction of the Navy. At least Pitt had not sent back Johns to harry him about naval strategy. Perhaps the Prime Minister was finally managing his cabinet effectively – he may yet be as successful as he had been in his previous term and a triumph at sea, which was not only likely, but imminent, would certainly reinforce his position.

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"Hey! Hey!" A half-dozen or so deckhands, mizzenlads and topmen had, in their high-spirited, grog-advanced state charged through from the stores to the lower gun deck chasing the next evening's meal along the boards. Half-concealed smirking, laughing and gaiety arose as the chickens ran quickly in panic towards the waiting crowd of seamen at the end.

"Go on! Go on!" they called, cheering on the baiters as the nucleus of the brood of hens cackled towards them, wings outstretched and squawking wildly.

"It's 'im, it's 'im!" yelled Bill Gibbons as he pointed to the leader of the flock. The men were enjoying another evening of merriment and as such some of the younger ones were fast running out of ideas for entertainment. "'oo's got their money on 'im?"

"I've got tuppence on the fair'un," said Dixon, stepping over the wake of the chicken horde as it reached the masthead end. "Do I get summat for that?" At the far end of the ship the first officer of the watch had sent a middie down to investigate the noise and the unfortunate pursuers of the hens were being castigated for their actions. The salts who had heard that their lark had been rumbled were edging their way back towards the capstan and their usual environs, keen on being immune to retribution.

Cicely followed the rest, listening the squawks and clucks of the hens being recaptured by their hitherto gamely pursuers. Finding a place on the steps near the upper gun deck and the porthole she stared out at the choppy water. Three days had passed since she had identified the two men, both able seamen, who had ascended the quarterdeck steps and speaking momentarily in French. One, she noted, was the carpenter's mate, the other a top-man, responsible for the far-reaching rigging when the ship had the wind full-on behind her.

She had thought of little else as she carried out her duties, as she ate and as she lay in her hammock on the upper gun deck. Who were they? Which was the former captain of the Acheron? How was one of them going to assassinate Lord Nelson? How was she going to destroy him?

"Stephen, you had a penny on the little one." Bill sat next to her, glancing at her uneaten meat pudding. "Shame it got knocked out on a nine-pounder." Cicely smiled in acknowledgement, forcing a weak smile.

"You can have it," she replied as she noticed Bill take in her supper, before looking out to the sea again. Cicely hoped that he would take the hint and leave her alone, but the boy continued sitting next to her, tucking into the dark, bready food.

"Are you sure you don't' want any?" Cicely shook her head. She seemed to have fitted in with the rest of the fighting men. Sleeping amongst the guns and a change in the formation of the pattern were really the only differences between the Surprise and the Victory. The watches; the chain of command; the working men were all the equivalent.

There were other subtle differences though: whether it was because there were more souls aboard or because, perhaps it was the flagship, existed a rigid hierarchy. No talking was permitted above decks between any men distinct in rank above or below decks unless it was a direct order. Jocularity between middies and the working man as happened from time-to-time aboard the Surprise to some extent would never be allowed aboard the Victory.

But another difference was the attitude of the officers towards the lower ranks. On the Surprise it was obvious, even to an outsider that those higher up the chain of command had a sympathy for the jack tars, that Jack Aubrey cared for his men. Not here, openly at least. But that appeared to result in a greater bond between the seamen, a great camaraderie.

"Thanks," replied Bill, nudging her gently. "I need it. The strength of the wind at the top of the mizzen today was – "

And he was off. Bill Gibbons, affable and good at his job, was prone to chattering, viewing any void as being imperfect and remedying the problem by opening his mouth. Most of the time Cicely would happily sit and listen – she liked to listen to anecdotes and stories when others cared to share them. But with a task on her hands and little idea how she would go about carrying it out she was finding it rather irritating. She cast her mind back to the ocean and at the several ships of the line she could see all following in their wake.

There were two men, both similar in stature. Other than their roles and their names she knew very little about them. Both of them, being low in rank, slept among the others and she had watched both when she could in order to glean anything she could, which had been little, and ascertain anything about their motives, which had been nigh-on impossible for the limited time she had. How was she to do what she was set? She had to find a way.

" – three sheets to the wind, if you understand me, Stephen." Cicely looked back and smiled at Bill as she noted a concluding sentence to his monologue. She nodded vaguely.

"Dixon's pleased," Bill carried on, "he's won sixpence on the chickens." Cicely looked past Bill to see Philip approaching, a broad grin across his features. Gibbons turned and grinned too. The clumsy young mizzenlad took a seat cross-legged on the wooden planks.

"Sixpence," he confirmed cheerily. "More than I've ever won in me life. More than I've ever 'ad in me pocket at one time," he added, grinning broader still, if that were possible. "Mebbe me luck's changin'!" Cicely smiled back at the youth, his ruddy, honest features beaming with pleasure. If anyone deserved a cheer-up after his ineptitude that afternoon it was Philip.

"Them that took the hens out've been 'ad though," said Reuben Jelfs, another of their ilk ambling past on his way towards the capstan-end, probably to lose any winnings he had just acquired playing cards. "Whatever will Jellicoe say?" Jellicoe was their midshipman, the tall, hard-faced man who had scolded Cicely when she first boarded. Cruel and an impossible perfectionist, the man was best handled by behaving in a subjugated manner, by taking the stance that you were automatically in the wrong and assuming that even your very presence in his sight constituted clutter.

Both Dixon and Gibbons looked away in mild horror - whatever Midshipman Jellicoe had to say it was best considered in the cold, hard light of day.

"You comin' t' middle, Bill?" continued Reuben, nodding in the direction of the capstan. "I think there'll be a big game tonight. All those pennies that have just changed pockets."

"In a while," replied Gibbons, reaching for the last of Cicely's biscuit. He raised it to his lips but, due to the fact that a fist punched the food out of his hand, it didn't make it. Gibbons turned in shock, half-getting to his feet as another man, someone Cicely had been studying for the last few days glowered back at him.

"Duquesne!" yelled Gibbons indignantly. "I was enjoying that!"

"Enjoying, yes," replied the Frenchman continuing to glower at Bill, "but it was not your food. You should never deprive another man. And you – " he poked an accusing finger in Cicely's direction, " – should have eaten it. Mon dieu! We have been relaxed, up till now, but we will meet action," he continued. "You are thin enough as it is! What happens when you are needed to do your duty?"

A silence lasting about ten seconds reigned before all three of the mizzenlads and Cicely spoke at once.

"Thin, am I?"

"What's it to do with you?"

"Mon dew? What kind of Frog-talk is that?"

"Steady now, Bill!"

The last voice had been that of Jelfs addressing Bill as the lad had grabbed the older, taller man by his clothing, eyeing him up and down as if to judge where the best place to thump him first would be.

"Yes, what business _is_ it of yours?" This time, Cicely got up. The Frenchman, stooping through his height, broad-shouldered and swarthy, narrowed his eyes towards her. She had felt her hackles rise when she had been accused, essentially, of betraying her kin. "What do you know about it? About me? I may be thin, but I could show you a thing or two."

They were not empty words, although they sounded like them. Cicely had heard him talking to another man that evening quite contemptuously about Jellicoe and, though she disliked their middie as much as anyone else, the point was tender. Edward, her brother, had been disliked for his manner aboard the Surprise. Men had refused to be respectful and had undermined him.

The Frenchman snorted and took a step past them. Clearly her threat was like a drop of water in the sea. It was a good thing too, Cicely concluded. She had felt like she wanted to fight Duquesne like she had fought Joseph Nagel. She couldn't risk being found out, like then. Bill had backed down too after glancing uncertainly at Cicely a couple of times.

"You are a Frog, then?" asked Dixon, a monumentally inappropriate inquiry at the best of times, causing Benjamin Duquesne to loom over him and narrow his eyes menacingly. Just when Cicely thought he was going to hit the poor mizzenlad he turned back to Cicely.

"I advise you for your own sake, boy," he said, his tone softer than she expected. "You wish not to be a burden on others, I am sure. Mon dieu, the commander will wonder where the rest of you resides when we are examined tomorrow." And with that he turned and stalked off past Reuben Jelfs in the direction of the hold."

"'e said 'Mon Dew' again," commented Dixon, watching the man's wake. "I hope it isn't a curse word."

"Examination?" echoed Cicely softly, the words filling her head with a growing dread.

"Midshipman Fraser's men were done today," replied Bill evenly. "We're probably close to action. De-lousing, new clothes, a good dressing down…hithers and thithers," he continued. "We need to be fit for whatever we're up for and we have to represent the flagship. It won't do us any good to show up half-dressed – what will the Frenchies think of us? Not to mention the other ships."

"Mon dew," pondered Philip again.

"It means 'My God'. And that's about all the Frog I know," Reuben Jelfs glanced in the direction of Duquesne.

"Does it?"

"You comin', Bill?" Jelfs nodded again towards the capstan as the roar of jocularity, and possibly a large measure of inebriation by the sound of it.

"Me too," interjected Philip eagerly.

"Yep." Bill jumped to his feet, before turning to Cicely. "See you, Stephen."

But Cicely didn't hear him. A good dressing down. She looked back out to the dark sea as the dusklight reflected off its choppy surface. That wasn't just a turn of phrase. It meant a through, intimate inspection.

There was no way out of it. At some indeterminate time the next day she would be found out. If she refused the examination she would be flogged, so either way her gender would be discovered. She could try to fake the pox, or syphilis, ways which she had avoided such examinations in the past, but she had little time to prepare. Even if she did, it was unlikely she would escape further investigation.

Bill was right – the ship was preparing for a significant engagement: the officers would not allow anything to pass, not even a difficult, inconsolable or disease-ridden mizzenlad. There was only one thing for it. She got to her feet and made her way towards the ladder that led to the deck.

She would have to find out whether it was the top-man Benjamin Duquesne or the carpenter's mate Jean-Baptiste Lebec who had been the captain of the Acheron and hence the assassin of Lord Nelson, then she would have to kill. And she would have to do it that night.

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	19. Lebec

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As the Admiral of the French fleet based at Toulon Pierre Villeneuve had collected his native fleet from Toulon port in the South of the country and had taken four days over rendezvousing with the Spanish ships which would make up his line.

Despite his best efforts in the previous months bad luck and his own misjudgement had disrupted the Emperor's invasion plans of Britain, for now.

He considered it a little unfair that the blame had been placed almost entirely at his feet – he had been recalled to Paris to speak with Bonaparte himself two months before and in the hot August sunshine in a former royal palace made to recount in humiliating detail the events which had caused Lord Nelson to triumph time and time again.

The Emperor had remained silent for most part before detailing his invasion plans of Britain, each missed opportunity open to the interpretation that, had the Admiral taken other action, more decisive rather than strategic, the British Navy would have been defeated and his attack on the country would be in motion.

Then he advised Villeneuve to take the courage of France with the allies of Spain to take on the Britain. In what form that would take Bonaparte was glaringly silent and he had taken the opportunity to offer his personal physicin, recently liberated from a British prison, to doctor for the men aboard the Bucentaure.

What choice did he have? The British fleet had begun in the channel and had made their way South down the coast of France unhindered, even when challenged by frigates and schooners patrolling the coasts there. He had gained the Emperor's displeasure and was now in a position where he had to triumph in the impending conflict just to balance out his projected past failings.

Pacing the orlop deck at the front of the ship Admiral Villeneuve began to wonder whether it had been worth being promoted to his rank. He had carried out his vague orders to the letter and, where they were unclear had set about on a course of action that would, in his view, be the most advantageous.

Perhaps, yes, they weren't necessarily the ones which put the French fleet on the offensive to the enemy. And yes, Britain still had a vast hold over the Mediterranean. Well, they certainly were now.

He surveyed the ships which were with him and considered the situation. Thirty three in total, more than (his intelligence had informed him) the British. The enemy fleet had passed Cape Finisterre on the Spanish north-west coast. The French-Spanish fleet were due to pass through the Straits of Gibraltar in a couple of days' time. That meant they were likely to engage the British fleet at Cadiz, or thereabouts which, due to the prevailing weather, was an advantage to ships which were west-facing.

On the downside however he was in command of half Spanish ships. They were far less manageable and more unruly than a whole fleet of French ships. He had a measure of inside information however: Dupuyren, had shared what he knew from his brief excursion on a British frigate, though it was little more than he could have guessed at. He should be grateful that Napoleon had spared him: he would need a surgeon of skill in the coming days but it was more than likely that the Emperor had pressed his own personal doctor upon the Admiral to intimate that significant combat was imminent.

Villeneuve rubbed his head. Whatever was to happen in the month ahead a lot depended on luck and skill. From his point of view, at the moment, neither were looking too favourable.

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On Villeneuve's opposite number, HMS Victory the Captain Robert Hardy read his orders from Lord Nelson. The ship had to be fit for battle, which was imminent in the coming weeks.

He knew that, thought Hardy gravely. There was so much to do and so little time to have it ready. The ship had to be checked for wear and tear. Whatever could be replaced had been, from sail-sprits to stays and ropes. Even the shroud-ropes had been discarded for new ones to be installed.

The real challenge was the men. So many of them, and over one hundred of them were new to the Victory on this voyage. In such a hurry that they were to keep all able hands that they could only a minor, brig-like check had been made while the ship had accommodated former French prisoners in one of Lord Nelson's most audacious and controversial ideas yet.

It wasn't so much the number, more the urgency for treatment. An outbreak of fleas had been identified in some of the seamen and, to avoid both infestation and pestilence, especially at such an important time as this, medical examinations were to be hurried through, a cleaning of the body with mild lime solution and a redistribution of new clothes, their old clothes to be burned.

They were close to the port of Cadiz and the rest of the fleet of the line were with them still. Three had fought lone French ships on their voyage south but they were mere trifles compared to the engagement that was to follow. Hardy knew as well as anyone how close Napoleon was to invasion. They had delayed and diverted him successfully, so far. But it only would take one mistake, one opening, one chance for the self-styled French emperor to make his way into England.

Turning to his ledgers which were illuminated by tallow candle-light Hardy picked back up his quill and continued to enter that days' sailing log before rubbing his eyes again. It had been a long mission so far, and would be longer in the weeks head. He only wished he had his brother Thomas aboard.

That had been a strange thing, one which he had reported and remained unacknowledged. Thomas had, as far as he knew, attended duties aboard a frigate almost three months before. His understanding had been that this frigate's doctor would come to take up Thomas's duty. So when this had not happened he had had to turn to the skills of William Beatty a midshipman who had a background in medical and surgical science. Beatty therefore had responsibility for the crew and their health inspection and while he was confident that the man was more than capable, it was a situation which concerned him a little, not least for the wellbeing of his brother.

A knock on the door pulled Hardy from his out-of-character, pressure induced deliberations. Moments later, once invited, Harry Baker, the midshipman in charge of those sailors who legged the rigging, top-men, mizzenlads, deckhands and so on.

"Mr. Baker," began Hardy, weariness beginning to show in his speech. "What can I do for you?"

"If you please, sir. There is an awful fuss adecks. We are about to come to the end of the men's examinations due to the failing light. But one of my men refuses to undress for treatment. He claims he has syphilitic sores." Hardy exhaled slowly. He had the rest of the log to complete, the provisions log to consider not to mention the crew list to review. It would be a long evening.

"Well, flog him, sir," replied the Captain curtly. "Unless he capitulates. As it is dark he has the evening to reconsider his impertinence."

"Yes sir." Baker saluted before departing swiftly. Moments later, Hardy got to his feet too. Leaving the books open he walked to the other side of his cabin-office, through the adjoining door and to his hanging-cot. Refreshed, the work would take half the time.

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It had taken three hours for Captain Hardy to retire from his work. From her vantage point between the floor planks, which were also the ceiling planks of the middle gun deck at the stern of the ship Cicely had wondered when precisely the tired Captain would leave his work.

William Blakeney had been the one to show Cicely how to manage such a trick – there was a gap about a foot thick between both sets of planks at the rear of most large warships usually accessible from the stores. Cicely had been in luck and had spent a long time waiting for the Captain to leave. A long time in which she could fine-tune her plan.

The worst case scenario would be, she had contemplated, would be that she would be discovered as a woman. If this were to happen before she had completed her own assassination then all would be lost. So at all costs, whether she was discovered or not, would have to be to identify Nelson's assassin once and for all, and kill him quickly.

Of course, it would be better if she were not to be found out at all, and this was the part of the plan about which she was most vague. The ship was coming towards land and she would dock in neutral Portugal. If this were to happen in the next day or so she may have the opportunity to desert. If not, her only other option would be to throw herself overboard in the hope that another ship may rescue her.

At least she hadn't had to wait all night. Her shift began at the first bell on the forenoon watch, half-past eight in the morning in pocket-watch timekeeping and, while she had plenty of time, Cicely had been glad she had a little time to spare.

She lay close, and listened. Apart from confirming her fears, and too what she had already guessed Cicely had not gleaned much from eavesdropping on Captain Hardy. However, she had had time to formulate a plan, of sorts, even if it did depend heavily on luck.

It wasn't going to be easy. Cicely had found her moods becoming increasingly black since she had been stirred into action suddenly and unwillingly. Even beforehand the thought of…what she must do…had tormented her. She would have to find it within herself to…assassinate an assassin…

The murder (for that was what Cicely knew it to be) had to be silent, quiet. She could not use a gun, although that would be easier than having to face the man at close range, it would be done and over quickly. Other options included poisoning in some way, which might not work, or an accident, which would be difficult to stage and organise in such short a time than was available.

That had been the part which had been haunting her as she had spent most of the previous evening, that working day and the time now spent beneath the Captain's floorboards, the cold, hard brutality of it all and worse, having to analyse the best possible method as if it were a tricky game of poker or a loose mainstay on a windy night. How would God ever forgive her for doing such a thing?

Her mind Cicely knew would have to take a knife to him, somehow. But where to get one? The food was not served with cutlery, only a spoon with which to eat the lobscouse stew. It would be nigh-on impossible to steal a battle cutlass from the weaponry or make off with a bayonet from a Royal Marine. Cicely had seen Captain Hardy stow away a letter opener in his drawer. Perhaps this could be sharpened sufficiently?

Then there was the predicament of actually carrying out the killing. Having to stab the man would be difficult unless he was alone somewhere – he would undoubtedly fight back and both Frenchmen were much larger than she was. She could get him drunk, of course, with strong liquor. But where to obtain it? And how to ensure he drank enough for appropriate stupefying effects. She could hardly pour it down his neck.

Feeling her heart sink at the weight of it all Cicely slid herself out of the wooden gap and into the passage next to the door of the Captain's office. She placed her hand on the handle and squeezed slowly, hoping that the Captain would be sound enough asleep that the click of the latch would not rouse him.

The hinges squeaked a little as they moved under her force. Cicely stopped, and waited. Nothing. She leaned a little more and slid herself through the gap between the door and the doorframe and looked around.

The office was relatively spacious, bigger than that of Aubrey's and it was decorated modestly but tastefully with little expense spared. Clearly the Captain intended to return soon as he had left the oil burner above his desk alight. She must be quick, she knew, but she was grateful that Captain Hardy had done so as it illuminated the books on his desk, one of which Cicely could clearly see was the crew record.

She sneaked over to the large, mahogany desk and peered at it. Open on the last page, it showed the latest entries of men aboard the flagship. This one showed the three dozen or so who had embarked at Portsmouth. Cicely leafed back a few pages to the Yport entries looking for her own. It was there, neatly written about a third of the way down. Stephen Maturin, mizzenlad, former ship HMS Surprise, place of birth: Lleida, Catalonia, Spain. Others who had boarded with her, who had been released from the prison there and taken aboard with her were also noted down.

She leafed backwards, hoping the rustle of the pages weren't actually as loud as she was imagining. The record of crew was always written chronologically, so she needed to work out when the French ex-Acheron-captain would have been on board.

Harris had said that the ship was wrecked a month before he had joined Major Blunt's regiment, and he had been with the regiment almost five months. So, six months before…Cicely leafed through the book…

…the names she was looking for were Benjamin Duquesne or Jean-Baptiste Lebec…

…Fillings…

The name caught her attention – of course. Poor Harris had mentioned that Fillings had been rescued from the wreck of the Acheron along with a couple of others. James Fillings, former ship listed as being Acheron, place of birth: Oporto, Portugal. Cicely leaned further forward and looked harder. For the date that Fillings was recorded only two other names were listed, John Gibson (former ship Acheron, place of birth: Witney, Oxfordshire, England) who had been an apprentice sail master and had been chosen by Captain Pullings, and…

…Jean-Baptiste Lebec…

…former ship, Acheron…

…place of birth: Savoie, Rhone…

Cicely swallowed, and then scanned the page again. Lebec, the carpenter's mate. Not the Frenchman who had been outraged that she had given away her food. She had to be sure, though, for there would only be one chance.

Was there a mention of Duquesne?

Not on that page. She flicked a couple of pages nearer to the front, trying to hurry. Unable to find it, she turned back to the page on which the book had been open. A creak behind her made Cicely start and she froze, looking towards the cabin door, and then to the adjoining door that she had seen Captain Hardy go through twenty minutes before. Her heart beat in her chest as she sought to discern whether the creak had come from the cabin.

Then she noticed, in the corner of the room a wooden chest not dissimilar to that of Stephen's. Beside it was a large, leather-bound book. Glancing at the door once more, she looked over again. Cicely thought over her plan, the part she knew would take all her strength, courage and stomach. At least if caught, she would know assassin was killed, that Stephen would be safe: that was a small price to pay. She would rather be without him and he be alive.

Quietly pressing her feet on the planks Cicely made her way stealthily to the table on which the wooden chest sat. She knew that the doctor aboard the ship had a cabin below that of the Captain – she had been shown it on the second day of being aboard the Victory – so why would a medical chest be in the Captain's office?

Next to it lay a thick leather-bound book with the letters T. J. H. monogrammed in the bottom-right hand corner of the cover. She opened the front cover and read the title: "Index of Biologic Treatments: Military and Domestic Surgery". Staring a little harder, she flicked open a couple of pages. The book contained a list of medicines listed, it seemed, alphabetically and handwritten. Purgatives…vomiters…anodynes…pectoral powders…quieting pills…ointments…

Cicely turned to the front page of the book and looked at the neat, curved writing. The second entry, asafoetida, was engraved beautifully, as if with a wide quill and finest India ink. Asafoetida. She recalled when she had imbibed a tincture of this herb, given to her when Higgins had prescribed a rising fever when she had been expecting. Other medicines she recognised were detailed too: leeches, quinine, coca, belladonna, aconite, laudanum. Even a treatment for scurvy was listed. In addition, the drawing and other diagrams of surgical instruments and techniques filled more than half the book.

Between the cover and the second page a note was placed, a reminder it seemed, to a William Beatty. Cicely knew that name – wasn't _he_ the Victory's surgeon? It read, Thomas Hardy, vis. ex. Surgeon pro-tem. Codex and effects. So, Beatty was a temporary surgeon, and this Thomas Hardy had left his things in his possession. Why then did Dr. Beatty, who Cicely now realised was the man she had seen in the lower cabin, not have them? They would surely be most enhancing to his profession. The Captain's name was Hardy, she knew. Perhaps he was a relative and was keeping them safe for him?

She turned back to the front and Cicely glanced at the chest. Is it possible that all that was listed therein was in the chest? Placing her palm flat on the lid of the chest Cicely used her thumb to open the thick brass clasp. The lid was heavy and she guided its weight as it curved open. Cicely glanced over it.

Of course. That was too much to hope for. Cicely made to push her hand against the lid to close it again but then her eye fell on an amber-coloured hexagonal prismic bottle. Laudanum. She hesitated.

It was something she could use: she only had to dose the man's rum with the anaesthetic and he would be soporific within half an hour, then her deed would be done. She would not need to worry about strong spirit or the like. But what dose? Too weak and it would be ineffective; too strong: fatal. Glancing back to the Index, she wondered whether there was a dosage table as Stephen had, but then the stupidity of what she had just thought darted across her mind.

Reaching inside and trying not to choke on the ironic laugh that was stuck in her throat Cicely held the bottle in her hand. Images of having done so before, in Stephen's cabin when she was suffering the green ills of seaman-life; when muscle-pain and weariness was driving her towards a state of pitiful weeping and she had succumbed to its pain-relieving properties.

Closing the lid quickly but silently she crept towards the door, then stopped. She needed a weapon, and she knew how she could fashion one. Turning, Cicely made her way back to the Captain's desk as she heard a sound. The Captain appeared to be stirring. The distinct squeak of cot-ties being loosened permeated the oak panelling.

Cicely increased her pace, the squeak of the boards underneath her feet being a compromise to swiftness. Pulling open the drawer she seized the silver-plated letter opener, decorated as it was with the Victory's cipher fashioned at the hilt. She could make it sharper…razor sharp.

She pushed it closed with her thigh and made for the door, grasping towards the handle just as the footsteps from the cabin adjacent grew closer. Cicely would have to stow her ill-gotten spoils about her person and squeeze through the board-gap again.

Throwing the door open, she grabbed the handle on the other side, pulling the door to behind her and trying, against her better instinct, to close it as slowly as she could. When it slid shut, Cicely pressed her back against the wall of the cabin, facing the stores-end and held her breath, waiting for the captain to open the door and demand an explanation. It never came. Cicely waited a few moments longer as her heart beat behind her ribs before stowing away the letter-opener and bottle of laudanum inside her clothing.

Slithering between the planks Cicely paused every so often to listen to the movement in the office below – nothing untoward still – before making her way to the upper quarterdeck. From there she needed to slip down to the main deck before going below through the holes. On the main deck she found a secluded spot to press herself against the oak panelling as she waited for the officer of the watch to pass by. Though it was discouraged for hands to be above decks at night it was discouraged so as to allow for sufficient rest. She saluted and the officer, a lieutenant, blinked in acknowledgement before passing on.

Instead of crossing the deck however, cicely turned right and pressed herself up against the balustrade, away from sight. Whatever was she doing? How could she possibly go through with it? And yet…somehow, she must.

Presently, the waves lapping the hull was the only sound she could hear as she tried to block out the conflict that was playing out in her mind. Cicely looked across the deck as the sheets and shrouds flapped moonlight was gleaming on it. A full moon, Cicely noted, and in October, the Hunter's moon. She breathed again. She was the hunter, and…Jean-Baptiste Lebec the prey. She swallowed. She now had the tools, and the task in front of her. He –

But whatever she was about to contemplate was interrupted by a hand over her mouth and a forearm around her neck. Cicely struggled, swinging her arm so as she did not lose balance.

"What – " she tried, but a punch landed on her cheekbone. She span, putting out her arms to prevent herself from a fall before pushing herself back up.

"Stephen!" A whispered shout came in her direction just as she realised Reuben Jelfs had been her assailant. It was too late to prevent her return swing and she knocked Jelfs clean out. The lad lay on his back, unconscious.

"Who are you?" This time the words were staccato and louder. James Fillings was heading towards her, clearly having witnessed her assault on one of her comrades. She was above deck. Rank held. She saluted.

"What's your name?" His tone grew more brusque which didn't suit him as he took in the unconscious Jelfs. "You're one of Ellis's, aren't you?" Joshua Ellis was their midshipman, the tall, blonde, hard, cruel one.

"Stephen."

"Stephen what?" Cicely started. She hadn't told anyone other than lieutenant who had taken her name down when she arrived on board what her surname was, it had occurred to Cicely that it might have been very unwise to use it again, which was why she had a third item stowed in her clothing, the page on which her name had been written in the Captain's ledger.

"Maturin." It came out unbidden and now it was impossible for her to take back. Cicely waited as the moonlight shone in her eyes.

"You're Maturin," James concluded, his voice faltering, "but you're not…Stephen…"

"What's up, Jim?" Another deckhand had joined him, glancing at both Cicely and Reuben Jelfs.

"Nothing. I'm dealing with it."

"I'll call the lieutenant, shall I?"

"Leave it, Ralph, will you?" His tone sounded urgent and dangerous.

"Okay, okay." Ralph Jenkins scuttled away without looking back. James Fillings turned to look back at Cicely again.

"You see, I knew Stephen Maturin. Robert…?"

"Yes, Jim, yes."

A/N:

Thomas Hardy, not his brother, was the captain of the Victory at the Battle of Trafalgar. Thomas Hardy was not a surgeon, the Victory's surgeon was William Beatty. I flamingoed up.

Surgeon's Mate or Military & Domestique Surgery was written by John Woodall in 1617.


	20. Abroad

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It was early morning on what would have been Edward Hollum's 32nd birthday. As James Fillings snored not three inches away from her Cicely wished her brother well by way of a prayer to heaven, taking care to ask God for forgiveness.

She should have slept, Cicely knew. But there was no sleep to be had – she had been talking to James for the interim hours and now her brain was so full of thoughts slumber was proving difficult, not least the last few images of her beloved brother that she treasured in her cerebral cortex and brought out to her fore-mind whenever she was in need of comfort.

The lieutenant who had been on watch had returned just after James had guessed who she was, having been alerted presumably by the scuffle. Jim had claimed inebriation on the part of Jelfs and that they had brought him a-decks for some air. They had both shouldered him back to the upper gun deck and helped him into a spare hammock, Cicely having wetted his lips with some grog – a derisory consolation for laying him out.

There was precious little privacy aboard a ship, especially one the size and number of souls that was the Victory, but she and James had managed to find two adjacent hammocks, moving them closer to one another as they had done before on the Surprise, when they had been a pair mizzenlads sharing the same duty. They had shared their fears and insecurities; they had banded together when the Nagle and Pizzy had set on stealing their food. They had fought for each other and had risked their lives for each others' safety. Even when it had been revealed that Cicely was _not_ a mizzen_lad_, this had done nothing to change their friendship.

This time, however, it was different. They had talked, certainly, in their own distinct fashion: James with his innocent way of talking to her, expressing both his amazement that she wasn't aboard the Surprise any more and was here, if not in the guise of her husband, but in his name.

Cicely had told him briefly what had brought her aboard the flagship, leaving out some of the details and not mentioning her blood-bargain with Fouche either. She had been careful to swathe both the laudanum bottle and the letter-opener well inside her clothing not least for their concealment but also their preservation. She had told him she was here on an unpleasant business but that she could not reveal what it was and that it had to be carried out before the inspection the next day otherwise she would surely be found out.

In his excitable fashion James had told her that midshipmen Ellis and Barker's sections were to be carried out the day after due to both the complications of disease and pestilence that were being unearthed in the skilled sections and due to numbers.

"And we dock today too," James had continued, his face inches from Cicely, talking to her through his hammock as she lay in hers. This was how they had always been, lying next to one another in their hammocks separated by the outer edges of the coarse hessian and whispering through it. "The ships are going to tempt the Bucentaure around Cadiz. So you'll have time to do what you need and you can leg it, Rob."

Rob. He still called her by her original pseudonym even though here on the Victory she was Stephen. Cicely hadn't corrected him either: James finding out who she was felt like a glorious ray of bright sunshine glancing through a gap in a rock that made up a deep, black cave.

A large part of her was urging her to confide her secret to her friend, let him in on it and let him console, advise, comfort her. Instead she limited her comments to the mock-dread she harboured if she had had not choice but to stand in line with her fellows for treatment and face he flogging which would be due to her when she refused to concede to inspection. She had used several excuses in the past to disguise her gender, fever, the pox (as one fellow that afternoon had claimed), even leprosy. None of which would have helped that day, or rather, the day after.

Cicely had asked James about his adventures when he had sailed off with Captain Pullings in the Acheron. He had told her about the disguise the French captain had taken to try to fool Pullings and the English crew, and the attempted uprising of the remainder of the French loyal to the Captain.

"So how did you come to be aboard the Victory?" Cicely had pressed and James had gone on to tell her they had docked at Portsmouth and several men had disembarked as the Acheron was refitted. Cicely had asked if he was the only one to be chosen for the Victory and James had hmphed, perhaps a little too loudly as Harrison had been jolted in his slumber and called out.

"They needed an apprentice carpenter," James had whispered once Isiah Harrison had settled back to sleep. "They took on the rebellious Captain! Now Lebec has managed to get himself a plum job on the Victory when other good Englishmen weren't given the honour!"

And that was what Cicely needed to know: Lebec. He _had_ been the former Acheron captain. At least that was something. But it now meant certainty for Cicely in another way too: certainty that he was the assassin whom she must kill within a day. She hadn't mentioned to James about Harris however, probably because Cicely felt there was only so much the lad could take at one time. Perhaps she would before she went…

"You were promoted," Cicelad hd whispered, hoping her good humour had conveyed to Jim lying adjacent her and she was sure that she heard him smile.

"Yes," he had beamed into the darkness. "I've got a plan now, too. I want to go from one end of the ship to the other: perhaps I'll even be Captain one day."

"Or Admiral," had repleid Cicely. She was so pleased for her friend. Innocent, simple that he was yes. But unnervingly honest and open. He had been cut to the core when he had eventually found his father who he had been searching for since he had been able to get to sea, John Fotherington, and discovered that the man was a spy, murderer and traitor to England in the guise of a spy for France.

"It's not like the Surprise, is it?" Cicely had asked, as she contemplated the size of the Victory, its crew and organisation. "I'm just getting used to what it means to work here."

"It's very posh," James had giggled: Cicely had heard James muffle a giggle. "I remember being served food with a spoon and wondering what it actually was. And the grog is good and strong."

James had then returned to the subject of her mission and had begged her to let him help her. Cicely promised that, there was anything he could do she would tell him. That seemed to please Jim immensely and he had proceeded to tell her other exciting things that had happened during his service aboard the Victory.

Thank you, James…

Cicely's silent thoughts had returned to her contentedly-sleeping friend next to her. Thank you. She looked to the porthole as she clutched her weapons close to her body. Despite the brightness of the late autumn morning the day seemed blacker than ever.

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The ambush had been under way for a good half an hour. The spy had spent but a couple of hours in the company of this regiment's commanding officer, a major, before they were fired upon. Their position was to their advantage – they were high up in the Alcala de Los Gazules and the bandits, though evading detection until they were almost upon them, had found themselves being bombarded with rifle-fire and, from the army wives, loose stones and other miscellaneous mobile projectiles.

He was glad that he still had with him his pistol, won in an illegal duel in London several years before, and more so, that it still had bullets. Or, more correctly, their number were reducing rapidly: he had taken out several of the brigands although several others had taken their place.

The spy could understand how easily such a regiment, cut off and isolated, were such an easy target for robbers and thieves: that had been an objective of his mission, to gather together these lone groups in order to build a strong division in the east in readiness for Sir Arthur Wellesley. At least, that was his official objective. And, as usual, he was delayed in his real mission though he was only a couple of leagues away from where he actually needed to be.

Another man may have found it difficult to traverse Spain as he had done: the Spanish King had allied against France now and so any confrontation with the Spanish, whether army or civilian, was to be avoided at all costs. Well, almost all civilians. If you knew where to put your trust you could find your way across the country as he had done.

A bullet whistled overhead, inches from his scalp as he rolled onto his back, eyeing the clear, azure sky. The regiment was fighting well, but it wasn't a given win. He exhaled and closed his eyes briefly before turning over and levelling his pistol.

He had to make sure this regiment was saved from defeat – so much information to glean from its major. And the robbers were none other than staunch Castilians and that rankled. The spy fired. A hit. Another hit. Small but slow steps to victory.

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Supper that evening consisted of fresh meat purchased from Cadiz that afternoon, biscuit and pease pudding. Even with James sitting below with her, on the upper gun deck (even the minor difference in ranks above decks meant they should not converse above), it was difficult for Cicely to give a good show of relaxed demeanour.

She had spent a lot of the day suffering rudimentary punishments for her failure to obey orders quickly enough or complete her jobs to the required standard. The majority of her day had been spent with hammer in hand re-fixing the stays with metal pegs. It was a long and tedious job offering little opportunity to be up in the lines and sheets tasting the wind. Her smarting calves where she had been kneeling tingled now as she sat a-decks eating the supper.

For the part of her mind that was still in the present Cicely noticed that her food was tasty. Too much of her brain was occupied with the future, however, with a small measure focusing on the past. She had managed to slip off duty during the afternoon watch – her duties were to take buckets and brushes to the lower gun decks. That was where the armoury was. Cicely had managed to grind the letter opener using the granite stone which was used for the battle weapons. The quality of the opener had been superb and, as Cicely had thinned one edge on the stone she had thought what a shame it was to have had to defile it, or file it, as she had done.

The motion of the ship had dulled to almost nothing. The Victory had docked at Cadiz harbour after a tentative and difficult pilot. It seemed to make the food taste better, but perhaps that was because, Cicely mused, she was able to eat it without the necessity of managing its location within the bowl.

"Stephen, you fine?" Philip Dixon sat down next to her as she tried to clear her mind of the chaos within. "Only, you look a bit unwell." His earnest face was wracked with concern. Cicely tried not to look at him, begging him not to be kind to her as she knew he would be.

"Do you want me to get anything for you? Some grog?"

"We can get the doctor," chipped in Bill Gibbons, ambling by. "How's yer fist?" Cicely jerked her head towards Bill, who had a big grin on his face. "Reuben told us you'd laid him out," he continued jovially, leaning against the hold steps.

"I'd been up for some air," replied Cicely, nodding towards Dixon as she recalled Jelfs avoiding her that day. "He was up with Fillings, caught me off guard. I'll be glad when we've seen the doctor on the morrow," she added, hoping it was enough. The crew were in good spirits: that they had docked meant a little leave, and the food, water and grog rations were to be restocked, meaning that good eating for the foreseeable future.

"I'll say," continued Bill, grinning back at Dixon. "I've had such an irritation on me – "

And so he proceeded, regaling all who would listen to his various ailments. As she listened and dusk began to darken to night Cicely felt the desperation in her stomach. Time was up. She had to act that night.

Six hours later and Cicely had woken in a spare hammock. Six bells on the first watch. The excuse of illness had meant that she hadn't been disturbed which wasn't altogether beneficial. The chilly evening air penetrated her long smock – being in port meant the air, whatever its temperature lingered rather than being equilibrated out on the wave – and she reached for her overjacket.

Sternwise Cicely could hear the familiar humdrum of hands relaxing after a rigorous but exciting day. The odd whoop and curse echoed above the general merriment, possibly some card game or other, or betting on weevil racing (the ship's quartermaster was now guarding the livestock on pain of bilge pump duty for anyone caught trying to get at the hens again).

She dangled her legs over the side. This was it. Lebec would now be working on the forecastle deck with the carpenter. The captain, under orders of Lord Nelson, had been polishing the flagship, bolt and barrel, man and sail and all. The timbers around the prow, not six months old by Cicely's reckoning, were being replaced. Jenkinson had had to wait until they docked in order to source new oak supplies which, in Spain, were difficult to obtain.

Pulling the coat around her, Cicely leaned towards the next vacant hammock and leaned forward, holding the rolled edge as she dropped down. Exiting the aft-hatch moments later the breeze tousled her hair as she surveyed the view.

The second lieutenant who had been on watch the previous night was pacing the deck. Cicely inched her way towards the fo'csle as she watched him, hoping that he wouldn't order her away. A couple of middies, clearly excited at the prospect of being in a foreign port and with battle in their nostrils heralded their high spirits in a demeanour unbefitting of an officer-in-waiting.

She moved towards the railings, leaning backwards on the larboard side. The port of Cadiz was in front of her. Below her the wharf's dark boards stained with seaweed and grime leered back at her. Cicely felt her heart beating in her chest trying not to let the inanimate wood betray to her conscious mind the true nature of her feelings. She leaned back fore.

The lieutenant was making his way towards the stern of the ship, towards the mizzen deck. At his pace, she kept in the shadows under the railings of the fo'csle deck until she was larboard side. To her left the irregular hammering of iron into wood alerted her senses to her prey. Just there. The Frenchman was just there, ignorant of his fate soon to be. The carpenter, she knew, had been supping down in the gundeck at the Captain's table. Lebec had his grog close.

Again, the autumnal zephyrs blew past her clothing within which her weapons were concealed. Laudanum. Fashioned knife. Above her the stowed shrouds filled with air, then dropped suddenly.

Cicely always used to like that time of year. In the autumn, around Michaelmas, society folk would come. Ladies in their finery, gentlemen holding their hands and smiling. They would talk to her father, talk, sing, dance. Look beautiful. Look handsome. Cicely liked society then when society was, in the eyes of a six year old, just men and women in their finery having a good time.

If she succeeded, and there was little hope that she would, how would she disassociate herself from the man's murder? So much about it put witnesses nearby. Her arsenal was distinguishable and who but the most dunderly seaman not confirm they had seen her a-decks the previous evening at the time both the laudanum and letter opener went missing? The best she could hope for there, after her own hanging, would be that indeed Stephen would be released by the French interrogator Fouche, and that's if he kept his word.

She would fail then, Cicely knew, either through lack of courage or because it was a foolhardy, ill-conceived plan formulated in too little time and Stephen would die because of her…

The waves lapped erratically at the hull, its blackness suddenly growing and to her more becoming as the moments passed. To immerse herself in the blackness, to hide herself…from the Captain…from Lebec…from Wigg…the water was cleansing, it would wash away her sins…

Leaning forward, Cicely closed her eyes. And then opened them again at the jerk on her shoulder. Her shirt was being tugged at and she realised that she had one foot on the railtop.

"In a day or two, we go to war." Cicely turned once released from the grip on her shoulder and swallowed. Admiral Lord Nelson was addressing her. Or rather, the back of the Admiral of the Fleet was addressing her: the man himself was leaning over the parapet which she herself had been only moments before. Suddenly he turned and Cicely took in his angular, non-descript features.

Had she not known him, his visage from the oil-canvas hanging in the cabin of Jack Aubrey, or noticed his ensign, it would have been almost impossible for her to discern or deduce that this man, shorter than she had expected and slight, was in charge of the whole fleet behind them.

Cicely saluted quickly, bowing her head deferentially. Nelson looked at her for a moment, neither acknowledging her submission to rank or denying it. Instead he looked past her, towards the mizzen deck. Then he looked at her directly, his right eye fixing on her as a bayonet to a wounded Frenchman.

"What's your name, lad?" His tone was even, with nothing to tell its origin.

"Stephen, my Lord," she replied. "Stephen Maturin. Mizzenlad."

"I have seen you at work, lad," Nelson continued, turning to glance at the lieutenant who was walking past them. He saluted hurriedly. "And I consider you a vital part of my crew. No skill or talent can ace the quality of hard work. I value hard work, Maturin," he continued. Nelson looked out to sea, the starboard side of the flagship. Cicely felt her shame pool in her feet. She was to kill an assassin…_his_ assassin…would she the opportunity now? Could she even carry out the macabre deed?

"Did you ever hear the Goose-rhyme about a horse-shoe nail?" Cicely did not answer. It was clear Lord Nelson was going to avail her of it. He continued to address the blackness as he spoke.

"It concludes 'for want of a nail the kingdom is lost.' It tells of small things affecting greater ones." Suddenly Nelson turned and looked at her again, before glancing past her and at the lowered plank where, it appeared, a score of men, captains, lieutenants, a commodore by the look of it, were being piped aboard. The watch-lieutenant had gone to address them.

Cicely looked back at Lord Nelson. Perhaps she could tell him? Maybe she could warn him? The thought faded to nothing as perhaps the most powerful man in the armed forces of Britain spoke to her again.

"So, as you can see, I must leave you to carry out your duties. Remember, the dawnbird may eat the worm, but it is the second mouse that eats the cheese."

And the Lord Admiral nodded in her direction before turning and making his way towards the officers then joining them as the throng descended the fore-hatch.

So many people aboard. This was Cicely's first thoughts. She couldn't do it now. Where would Lebec be in a few hours? Could she manage it then, before dawn? Of course, if she left the ship and wasn't there for roll call the next morning, she would be classed as having deserted her post.

Blind to her direction though heading aft towards the mizzen again, Cicely knew she had to hide. She had to consider her options. She needed to –

"Cicely, what's the matter?"

Before her, the worried face of James Fillings took in hers. Five minutes later they were at the bilge-pumps, wedging themselves between the structural knees. Fifteen – and three people aboard Victory knew of Nelson's assassin and two of those three were talking quickly and urgently to one another. Twenty-five and they were being followed across the main deck by one of their own.

"James, thank you!" Using a main sheet that James had concealed about him – had they been apprehended its "hiding place" would be spotted immediately around the skinny frame of Fillings – he tied one end to the aft-sheet. The plan was this: desertion. She would belay the rope to the wharf, wait until the officers from other ships had disembarked and used their wake to disguise her steps.

"You're my pair, Rob," he replied in his usual affable tone, then he leaned forward, and hugged her. "I'll miss you!"

"I don't have to go," she replied, giving Jim the chance to back out of the burden he had just taken on. He patted his chest where the bottle of laudanum now resided.

"I couldn't see my friend hanged, could I? Nor the doctor killed." Cicely felt her heart lurch as her friend smiled back at her. James had time, far more time than she had. He just had to prevent Lebec from killing Nelson. Whether he killed him or not was up to him and besides, in the heat of battle mistakes could be made. One hand on the rope which was to take her the vertical length of the stern Cicely turned to James.

"Bye, Jim," she said, one foot on the railing. She took in his innocent face as she looked at her friend – the best friend she had ever had, Cicely knew that now. She leaned forward and planted a sisterly kiss on his lips. Then, over his shoulder she saw Jelfs, his face torn between indignant anger and confusion.

"Stephen? Fillings?"

Cicely jumped. Clutching the rope between her hands she sought a hasty descent – and got one, her skin scorched from her hands from the rope-twine – but she reached the end of the jetty, as was the target. Reuben Jelfs had barely spoken to her all day and had maintained a stand-offish mode.

There was no disguising herself now – perhaps if Jelfs had not alerted the watch-lieutenant, as she had heard him do, she might be able to wait it out, as she and James had planned. But she could hear the bell being rung double-time and the assembly of men aboard. Her feet touched the windows of the Captain's office – within, the officers she had seen boarding were seated, crowded together from what she could make out, and she tried to make sure she kicked off from the window sill rather than risk putting her foot through the glass.

She ran. Across the sea-worn planks and onto the hard earth. Cicely looked about her for a bolt-hole. Ahead of her were some small out-buildings, the main town of Cadiz being a mile away. To her left, as she had seen that day, a high-ground outcrop of rocks and trees. To her left, more strand.

Left it was. Ignoring the shouts behind her to hold fast, Cicely continued to run as the bell reverberated into the night air. As she got to a clump of rocks she crouched down, chancing a look behind her. At the same time a bullet landed a couple of feet in front of her on the sand. She looked back at the flagship. It thronged with several dozen men, many in the red coat of the Royal Marines.

She couldn't stay there – someone would be after her. Cicely knelt up, but was forced down again by a hail of gunfire. But the shouts were getting louder. Men were coming for her and, for desertion, she would be executed. She got to her feet and ran, pausing momentarily as a bullet tore through her shirt and ripped across shoulder. Cicely screamed, but kept on running.


	21. Hold Fire

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The problem that Gordon was doggedly delving into and this depriving himself of well needed rest was both intriguing and immensely frustrating. Sitting in his office high in the Admiralty's library he pushed up his delicately-framed round spectacles and rubbed his eyes.

Had the First Lord of the Admiralty, the Viscount Melville, to whom he nominally deferred, had witnessed his feverish study he would not believe it, not least because Gordon was not taken to such behaviour but because such a trifle was hardly high on his priority list however, since his letter in reply to Hamilton Gordon had worried.

He had received a curt acknowledgement of his letter but nothing since. That concerned Henry Gordon – inaction short of cannon-fire which was Sir Toby Hamilton's character – unnerved him and he had sent the sober-natured Gordon into an unrelenting search for the absolute authority on the matter. What was like him was his unerring desire to be in full knowledge of the facts in order to best do his duty.

It came to this: officers in command of a vessel of the Royal Navy had the capacity to marry those who wished it. And that was all. Nothing was mentioned in law, although Gordon presumed that, so a captain took place of a member of the clergy in both death and spiritual guidance beforehand, he also took the mantle of minister as far as marital matters were concerned. And the law had never been challenged before.

So that was the point, then: how valid was the marriage ceremony carried out aboard the Surprise on 29th November 1803? Which countries did the joining these two people acknowledge the authority of the observance? Though superb in administratortative and communication tasks with respect to his position Gordon was no legal expert.

Closing the hefty volume of Blackstone's "Commentaries" (The Rights of Persons) Gordon moved out his chair carefully as the early morning blackness flooded darkly into the library. He was not really any clearer than when he started the hunt for facts.

On the other hand, as detailed again in "The Rights of Persons" the law was given that the father of a daughter or the ward of a guardian may call any marriage without his consent invalid "as long as [so the volume defined] the wellbeing of the daughter or ward is hitherto compromised".

It was certain that Hollum or indeed Wigg was aware of this statute. Clearly they could argue that her residence aboard a warship was not in Miss Cicely Hollum's best interests. Gordon rubbed his temples as he replaced the "Blackstone's".

He would have to get advice from someone well versed in legal matters – Lord Harrowby's private secretary Stibbs, a friend of Gordon's, may well give some measure of assistance. This was an uncertain situation, one where no precedent had been set. Yet. But only if she ever returned to the country.

It was the flint that lit the candle within his mind and, as far as the Royal Navy was concerned (for it was the Royal Navy's interests Gordon served) the man could see a way to distance the seagoing fighting force from scandal or legal ramifications. It was his duty to see where the path would lead.

One thing was clear to him, however: as long as she never did come back to England the potential indignity and humiliation on the reputation of the service would vanish.

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Captain Jack Aubrey of the "HMS Surprise" threw his bicorn hat towards the window of his office.

"Damn it! Damn!" The curse words came from his lips as readily as lava from a tempestuous volcano and he kicked his chair to the bargain.

The meeting aboard the flagship had not gone well. Oh, he had been welcomed aboard as the other captains had been, that was true enough, and he had been given wine and food as was befitting such a meeting. And, excepting two incidents, one a trifle and the other not so, the meeting would have been quite routine and Jack would have been able to marvel at the ingenuity and innovation of their Lord Nelson.

Not so, for now his blood was up. Jack Aubrey rarely got into a rage, preferring instead to direct his emotions towards strategy, organisation or, if the cause and nature of the irk was particularly dire, to retreat to a letter from (or to) Sophie or soothe his nerves with his violin.

Should he touch his beloved instrument now Jack knew he was like as not to cause irreparable damage so much of a fury the latter incident had been.

Many of the captains who were at the meeting he had been acquainted before the night, whether at society events, shore-mess dinners or, less formally, at wharf and had greeted, and been greeted, with hearty affability and fine humour. Harte, of course, had been notably indifferent.

The meeting in Captain Hardy's office at the stern of the ship (interrupted only by a minor absconding incident a-decks) had been cramped but secure and, as both Nelson and Collingwood had been present explaining both the vision – the Lord Admiral – and the strategy – Vice Admiral Collingwood.

The plan was this: the fleet was to form two columns with Nelson in command of one, the Victory, and Collingwood the "Royal Sovereign". They were to sail at the centre and rear of the enemy line of battle so as to bring the British ships into close action and cut off the vanguard of the combined French-Spanish fleet which, though would have the prevailing wind, would have to manoeuvre to take account of the fleet's configuration.

It was brilliant in its simplicity. Aubrey, as with the other captains cheered heartily as Collingwood detailed it to them. Shaking his head now to himself the originality of the strategy was foreshadowed by the dolt who had spoken to him in front of the other captains, before his peers!

They had partaken in port, the best from the Douro valley, beef and lamb from the Portuguese hill-farms. Now, Aubrey reflected bitterly, the memory of the food tasted repugnant and the port wine sour. The reason: Jack had barely to recall the face of Donald McGregor before he picked up his hat, which had landed near his Queen Anne chair and threw it towards the window.

Did this man know no discretion? Could he not have recounted Nelson's orders to him privately.

"God damn your eyes, McGregor!" growled Aubrey to his window, whose proximal position, moored as it was opposite the flagship gave ample opportunity to let fly a few more curse words.

Jack had been remarking on the plan to Eliab Harvey, captain of the Temeraire and how his heart would sing when fully engaged in battle when the list of ships allocated to both the weather and lee columns were listed. The Surprise was not mentioned. When Aubrey questioned which column his ship was to take McGregor, Nelson's appointee [Henry Gordon's damp counterpart] had bluntly told Aubrey he was to remain at Cadiz and was not to sail with the fleet.

"May I speak with you, Lord Admiral?" Aubrey, barely believing his ears nor believing his own impertinence addressed Nelson directly. He narrowed his eyes and, as Collingwood was about to pronounce Aubrey as brazenness towards Nelson he cut in.

"Aubrey," Nelson replied, his body still and face emotionless before turning to McGregor. "May I trouble you sir, to elaborate on Aubrey's role? Perhaps the dispensary will serve as a less public arena?"

He had followed McGregor out of the cabin and out onto the main deck before turning left and into the ship's surgeon's office. He had harboured thoughts of meeting Stephen and, though he had grown to accept the man, enquire as to whether he and Thomas Hardy would redisplace their roles. All such thoughts now eluded him as the upset emotions he was now fighting to contain.

"Have you brought the letter as instructed, Aubrey?" McGregor's lilting expression, talking as if discussing wine or literature, soft and plain, caused Jack to bite back his own blunt outburst. He had focused on the range of small medical bottles, bunches of herbs (probably aconite) and glass and metal devices.

"Yes," he'd replied, restrainedly. From his tunic coat he extracted the letter that Sophie had sent him including that letter she had sent him from Cicely.

"You do not deny your hand in this?" continued McGregor, a touch of superiority, only a touch, in his voice. To Aubrey now, remembering it, Donald McGregor's vocal hue sounded loud in his mind.

"In that I married two consenting people aboard my ship as per protocol, no," Aubrey had replied stiffly. "In fact Miss Hollum had expressed to me that she put her life in danger many times before. I saw the advantage of a guardian in her husband, my surgeon," he added deliberately.

"You shame the whole of the service, Aubrey," continued McGregor, folding Sophie's letter around that of Cicely. It would be of little use to argue with the man, Jack knew, for it would only provide him with more weaponry to use against him in his own self-satisfied manner.

"Your role is to flank the fleet at range, but you shall not engage the battle."

On recalling those incongruous words Aubrey threw his hat again, this time in the direction of the door as it was rapped upon.

"Enter!" he bellowed. To be curtailed so, it was a Homeric blow.

"Captain Aubrey." Thomas Hardy's deep, honey tones, unsuited that they were to a man in his profession Jack had always thought, disseminated around Jack's office. Perhaps they were the pleasantest to have been spoken in an hour and as such Jack's dejected humour lightened slightly. "I heard thumping – do you wish for my company?"

A moment's pause followed, with Jack's affirmative pleasantry following that. Dr. Hardy took a few steps towards Jack's Queen Anne chair (he no longer moved tentatively in trepidation of the fearsome stare he had received when he had first tried his weight against its construct).

"Would you care for coco leaves?"

Aboard another ship, namely that of the Victory but in an orientationally distinct location another contemplatee was mulling the conversation he had witnessed, to whit that between McGregor and Aubrey.

How he had wished his counterpart in Paris had heard the dressing-down – for the man who had thwarted so many of Fouche's well-built schemes being denigrated himself would have caused much mirth in the man – even by his own standards he was enjoying listening to Aubrey squirm.

He had the memory of Captain Jack Aubrey's discomfort to console him when future difficulties presented themselves however, concealed as he was in the hold awaiting the opportunity to steal appropriate garb of the seaman, he would just have to wait.

As soon as he could, the spy would be able to get down to his primary business. It had been providence that a Spanish ship had allowed him passage to the south of Spain having availed him of his location on the Atlantic coast of France, delivering him almost to Cadiz itself. It had been better than anything he could have hoped for.

The spy sneaked back into the shadows, pressing himself against the oak beams of the ship's hull. Trying to inhale no more foul air than was strictly necessary the spy watched as a deckhand hung a relatively freshly-laundered tunic. That was what he needed to complete his ensemble. Good. Not a moment to lose. For there was an assassin to find.


	22. Look Sharp

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The ground underfoot felt hard and cold. Cicely was now about four miles away from Cadiz harbour and only now did she feel she had got far enough away from the harbour. The night was cold – stars twinkled in the sky and the moon was full. A hunter's moon. Now it was she who had been the prey.

The copse of trees to which she had been headed turned out to be much denser and larger. Cicely had made her way slowly through the trees, using the hillier ground illuminated by the moon to guide her in the right direction. Now she was up there, high up above the town Cadiz looked like a more concentrated version of the starry sky, twinkling clusters of stars close together, the lights ablaze even though it was about two hours after midnight, surrounded by a halo of blackness.

Cicely felt her shoulder. She had been hit by a marine's bullet but she could feel, now the blood had coagulated into her clothing that it was not lodged in her flesh and despite its acute painfulness seemed to have skimmed half an inch of the top before flying off, lost on the shoreground now.

Cicely sighed, her chest feeling the heaviness of cold air and she sat with her back to a tree trying to find the lee of the wind so she could rest in a little comfort. No such luck. Up here the wind was biting and she knew she would have to move on soon to find some sort of shelter.

What were her options now? She was alive, that was true enough. But what of the future? Cicely had boarded the Victory in order to assassinate an assassin, in order to save Stephen's life. She had failed him, of course, despite having passed the mantle to another. James Fillings, the soft, likeable lad who had grown to be her closest – her only – friend, had promised. Cicely shivered and dipped her head, feeling her teeth chattering in her lap as a gust of cold wind blew past her.

But though his intention was there, as had hers been, deep down Cicely knew that he hadn't got it in him. How would…how _could_ he cope with the emotions she had harboured? Besides, how would Fouche, the French spymaster who had sent her to do her grisly deed, know that Lebec had been killed?

With the little strength she had left Cicely hauled herself back onto her feet. Nothing she had endured before, not her flight from the Darwins; not being a navigational or joining up with Blunt's men on England's south-east coast; not the loss of their son…not even being holed up in a foul, dank French prison…none of these events in her life, Cicely concluded gravely, were as bad as they were now. Then, she had hope, a way forward. Then, she knew what she had to do, however toilsome, arduous and inconvenient. Now…?

She looked around, considering the options open to her. Cicely had no money, practically no belongings at all. What could she do? Steal? Beg? To her right was flat ground, heading towards Sanlucar; ahead to the north, towards yet higher ground still, the road to Seville. Her third option was to return to Cadiz. She looked towards the town again. It wouldn't be a good idea to return there in middle of the night: like so many busy ports, people walking around the town at night were usually up to no good. She would likely be fired on. Again.

It felt to Cicely like her heart had the weight of Peruvian gold inside as she pressed on north-eastwards. She could rein in her route when dawn showed its weak energy on the horizon. And maybe, before then, luck may gift her some shelter.

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The encampment that Cicely chanced upon not half an hour later was a disparate group of canvases perched on a rocky outcrop about six miles north of Cadiz. She did not know to whom these makeshift homes belonged, nor did she – now weary, hungry and disheartened – much care. Their presence made themselves known to her by was of a couple of pinpricks of light which turned out to be lanterns suspended on hooks close to the perimeter of the settlement.

She could see some shapes, those of people, not a hundred yards from the first tent and, on the night wind Cicely could hear people talking. Spanish, she guessed, or Portuguese. Perhaps she could throw herself on their hospitality temporarily in exchange for…what? Cicely still had her mother's necklace, suspended around her neck on its delicate chain and well-disguised by the collar of her shirt. She could trade them a place to rest and food for the value of the silver.

Taking a step towards the group, who she could now see were sitting around a small, makeshift fire, Cicely stopped dead as a cry came from the tent adjacent to her. The cry was of a baby and, as its low, repetitive wail pierced the air around them Cicely waited for someone to go to the child. The crying got louder and more insistent, grating on Cicely's every nerve and she found herself planting her feet through the ankle-length grass towards the poor thing.

It had been about a year since she had miscarried. They had been in the South Pacific. Stephen had gone with Padeen Colman, Calamay and two Royal Marines with the ship's boat to explore the myriad of islands discovered on the Royal Navy's circumnavigation of the globe in the late 1760s.

There, in Jack's cabin aboard the Surprise, the life that she had borne inside her was born too soon. She had tried to push, as her body was telling her to, but she had lost enough blood to pride the French. In the end her son…their son…had come away from her. Cicely had remembered Jack holding her shoulders as she sat, knees bent with her hands across her thighs as Pullings had covered the tiny thing up in a blanket.

Cicely found that she was standing before a wooden, makeshift crib of a young baby, howling now to the four winds for comfort. The glow of the light from outside was enough to illuminate the child's crib, a chair and bedroll next She was dressed in closely fitted robes and a cap covering her head adorned as it was with Italian lace and her large, dark eyes were scrutinising Cicely carefully. She had stopped crying.

"Poor little thing," whispered Cicely softly and she leaned towards the baby who started to wail again. Cicely glanced behind her. Surely someone of her kin should be here by now to soothe her? A moment passed and the child was still crying.

"There, there," Cicely cooed and she leaned into the crib, flinching from the pain in her left shoulder, and scooped up the child, who quietened at once. She held the girl close, her head to her right shoulder and she moved rubbed the child's back as she had seen Susannah Darwin do when she had been comforting young Charles.

Thoughts of her own son passed through Cicely's head once more. Time had stolen him from her and his accomplice had been death. She could never soothe her own baby as she was comforting this girl now. She would never –

Suddenly, Cicely turned the baby into her arms so the girl was looking at her. How easily would it be to take her? No-one seemed to be bothered by her pitiful distress. Perhaps that would be what her purpose in the future could be…? She could look after poor children…

…how easy would it be to throw herself on the mercy of a ship of the fleet with babe in arms claiming it was her own…making up some tale or story? Cicely Hollum could return to England. She could put it to Wigg that she would go back to him; renounce Stephen in exchange for housing some poor, motherless children…?

Looking down at the girl Cicely realised that she had closed her eyes. She leaned back over the cradle tentatively and lowered her in, watching her for a moment as she sought a comfortable spot in the cotton. Cicely draped the sheepskin back over the child, who wriggled a little as she settled and she found the urge to put her hand softly on the girl's middle.

She looked at the sleeping child in admiration – how perfect she seemed, lying wrapped up in a fur, with the light from outside reaching its rays inside. Cicely felt her necklace, the silver locket of her mother's absently. Then she unfastened it, removed it from her neck and placed it around that of the girl. There. A beautiful girl with a beautiful charm. It was worth too much to trade her comfort for. She would just have to find something else to bargain with now.

Cicely looked back at the child, sleeping and a lurch of her stomach caused her to take a step back towards her. No-one had come to her, to find out her distress. It would be so easy to slip the child next to her, pressed to her torso, arms around her –

"Bandito!" The scream behind her caused Cicely to swing round. "Rosita!"

From outside the tent, another scream went up and a man in a rather worn green tunic flapped open the tent's entrance.

"You!" he yelled, piercing Cicely's startled gaze with his own. "Identify yourself!"

English, thought Cicely, squinting in the dark light. Spanish, English…and that uniform –

Her thoughts were pierced by the cry of the baby girl who had clearly been alarmed at the shouting. Behind the man the woman screamed again. Before she had time to say or do anything however Cicely found that the soldier had seized her arm, dragging her out of the tent before throwing her to the ground.

"Un bandito venido a robar a Rosita!" Next to the tent a woman was screaming in her direction. As soon as the soldier and Cicely were clear of the entrance the woman darted in.

"English…? Espanol…? Portugez…? _Francais…?_" Cicely heard the emphasis on the last question and she scuttled back a couple of feet, trying to push herself up. She was about to speak but the soldier found the arch of her back with a well-aimed kick. As the man tried again, Cicely rolled over and pulled up her knees. She looked into the man's face and for a moment, wondered if she knew him.

She couldn't fight – this soldier was going to give her a pasting and, even uninjured, she wouldn't make much of a dent on this well-trained fighter. There was only one thing for it. She dived forward, avoiding another kick. Cicely glanced at the woman who was now holding the baby close to her, as Cicely had done, just outside the tent. She would have to run for it.

From her position on the ground Cicely lunged at the man's legs, bringing him down onto his back with a thump. As she got to her feet she heard the woman scream out again, something in Spanish. Cicely looked in the direction that she had come and got to her feet.

Before she had a chance to run however Cicely felt a hand on her left shoulder which, rather than putting her to the ground spun her round. She looked forward – then up. Inches from her nose the large, menacing face of a man bore down on her.

"Steal – my – child – would ye?" With each staccato'd word that he growled he pushed her back. Cicely's heel caught on a stone but the man grabbed her shoulders. She yelled out and he dragged her close to his face again. Then she noticed the ragged sergeant's stripes on the man's own shoulder. Surely, this regiment was…

But Cicely's mind did not have time to finish its recollections as Sergeant Patrick Harker, who had had his misgivings about her when she had come across the riflemen on the south English coast almost four months earlier, slammed his fist into her cheek. She reeled, but that still wasn't enough to floor her – the punch was inaccurate and most of the energy was deflected.

Under the massive sergeant's arm Cicely ducked and darted past the tent in the opposite direction. Harker tried to grab at her shoulder but she was too quick for him. Her flight took her towards a campfire where other soldiers were leisuring. Behind her the ground-quaking steps of the giant thundered after her. Cicely stopped, surrounded as she was by faces…that she knew!

"Steal my lassie, _would ye_?" The faces belonging to the soldiers she had served with, who were now forming a semicircle that blocked her path. Cicely turned.

"Sergeant… "

But any protestation, or talking at all in fact, was as useless as a teaspoon to bail out a scuppered frigate. She charged forward, head bowed. A cheer erupted from the men behind her as she was flung onto her back with a more accurately laid punch. Behind him, Cicely just made out the mother of the girl, holding her still and eyeing Sergeant Harker. Guilt surged in her stomach. It was true, the thought had crossed her mind. Momentarily, but it had been there.

Cicely rolled out of the way of the boot aiming for her middle. No good was to come of this fight – he was far stronger and with brute force she would be hammered. Her only chance was to fight as she could before she could run. She scrambled to her feet, looking around for an exit. There was none, and the time wasted in looking had given the sergeant an opportunity to seize her shoulders again.

Yelling in pain Cicely turned and sank her teeth into the man's wrist. This time it was his turn to yell, before throwing more verbal profanities at her. And then she saw it. To her right, towards a dense thicket, was her refuge. She could easily get lost in there.

Cicely made to run but this time was floored not by a fist but a tree root and she tumbled down again. Above her Sergeant Harker threw himself towards her, holding her onto the ground. He held her wrists and this time Cicely managed to bite his nose.

Again, Harker yelled as Cicely managed to roll away. Feeling inside her shirt Cicely's hand rested upon the sharpened letter opener whose original purpose of slitting Lebec's throat was long now superseded and it worked just as well as a dagger in the sergeant's wrist as he chased after her. This time, the man roared in pain.

Cicely made to stab again but this time he bucked upwards. A second later he lunged for her left hand, holding her wrist away from her. She tried to struggle but he forced her wrist into the campfire, holding it there as a grin played on his lips. Cicely screamed, and let go.

"What is all this? Harker?" Over Serganet Harker's right shoulder the form that confirmed to Cicely the identity of the regiment appeared. Major Blunt's face glistened in the firelight. Harker let go his grip on Cicely's arm and hauled himself up. Cicely pushed herself away from him and tried to get to her feet but the Sergeant took one stride towards her and gripped her hair tightly.

"This brigand was trying to make off with Rosita, sir."

"Bring 'im with yer. My tent. Now."

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Cicely was brought before Major Richard Blunt, Sergeant Major Harker dragging her along by her hair. Now what? The Major was no fool, Cicely had seen enough the last time she was in his company.

"Enough, Sergeant," said Blunt as Harker stopped before him but he did not release Cicely. How much of a chance did she stand now, she thought? Would a claim of drunkenness pass as an excuse for being several miles away from Cadiz harbour? She tried to straighten up but found it impossible – Harker still had a painful hold on her hair. Now was not the time to think that she ought to have taken a blade to it before now but her mind decided to her avail it of her in any case.

"Sergeant, I said enough." Blunt took a couple of steps towards Cicely. "Pat," he added with a glare. Grudgingly Patrick Harker let her go and Cicely fell to her knees. With haste she tried to scramble to her feet but Harker pushed her back down again. Blunt took two more steps towards them, bending a little to take in Cicely's appearance.

"Well, what do you know – a naval uniform…low rank…seaman…" Cicely shot him a look which confirmed to the Major that he had guessed right, so far. "So, the Royal N are missing one of their men tonight, is that so?"

Cicely found herself nodding and the glint in Blunt's eye told her a couple of things – one that she would have to think fast and two, if she wasn't going to be considered a deserter and handed over to the Royal Marines, it would have to be good. Before she had an opportunity to speak, Blunt continued.

"You cannot have got lost by accident – we are very difficult to find here, and with good reason. Are you deserting? Or do you work for the enemy?" Cicely tried to look impassive as she knew, to some degree of interpretation; both of Major Blunt's assertions were true. Blunt bent lower and Cicely, though she desperately wanted to look away, eyeballed him back.

"No, sir," she replied weakly.

"Oh, so you do speak English, then?" Pulling her up by her shoulders and noticing her wince as he touched her left one, Blunt looked her in the face. "We may be separated by the type of fighting force we serve, but in the army a private defers to his superiors."

So," he continued, walking past Cicely for a moment before swinging back to look at her. "I think that you're one of the men we encountered a couple of days ago. I think that you stole the uniform and were trying to finish us all as we slept." Cicely found herself shaking her head and a shiver passed down her spine. If she were to retain her identity she must make the story she had just concocted sound believable. She bowed her head.

"No, sir."

"A deserter then. And you were trying to steal a baby," he added, his voice contempt-rich and accusing. Cicely tried not to look up as Blunt paced past her. Behind, she could hear Harker's low growl, as if he were a bear threatening its prey. The Navy well-rewarded those who captured deserters just like the canal company from which she had absconded in England. But, unlike the Grand Union Cicely knew the navy flogged deserters then sent them to pick the ropes before positioning them in the most dangerous roles come battle-time.

"No sir."

"We come down hard on thieves in the army." This time it was Harker talking. From her view of the ground she saw the Major's boots, high, black leather and well worn. He was softly tapping one foot on the floor. "We hang thieves, isn't that right Major?"

"Indeed, Sergeant," confirmed Blunt and Cicely felt his eyes burning into her scalp as campfire had burned her flesh ten minutes before. Aware of the throbbing in her left wrist as her body responded to the injury Cicely's mind scrolled back momentarily to the man who had tried to rob her of her locket which she had been trying to sell in an inn in London to buy her passage aboard a ship, the one she had now bequeathed to Harker's daughter. Blunt had hanged him.

"But we could always flog you…a thousand lashes…till you beg for your death." Harker's voice had lowered in pitch and Cicely squirmed.

"Out with it!" Major Blunt's demand was shouted at her and Cicely looked at him, feeling herself trembling.

"I…I…" she began but she felt herself being hauled to her feet from behind and Harker. She tried to dash away as Harker tore at her already ragged shirt. She felt herself trembling despite herself: a thousand lashes was death.

"Please!" Cicely protested, trying to turn to the sergeant, "I wasn't going to take the baby away…I heard her crying…" Then she looked at Blunt as Harker managed to pull her arms out of her blouson. "You know me… " she said to Blunt as she struggled against the great man but he had torn off most of what he could. Expecting a bare back on which to thrash he stopped as he took in the strips of cloth which she were wound tightly around her torso. Blunt stopped too and looked at her with an expression of worried curiosity.

"Major Blunt," she spoke to the 105th Rifles' commanding officer. She had been about to continue with a reminder that he had helped her once before but she didn't need to – realisation flooded the major's face light dawnlight on an eastern horizon.

"No!" The exclamation seemed more one of resignation than of rebuttal. "Not you again. Not twice!" He looked at his sergeant major then added, "put her down Harker."

"Her, sir?"

"Of course, Pat. You never knew, did yer?" Major Blunt walked in an arc past Cicely, still staring at her before standing next to his sergeant major. "This 'ere you knew as Robert Young. _Private_ Robert Young." Cicely broke her gaze from Blunt and looked up at Harker, shuddering a little. Utter astonishment was not strong enough words to describe the emotion that the sergeant was feeling right now. A moment later, it was elicited in words, looking quickly between Cicely and the major.

"B…bloody…be-jeesus…Young…? Mary, mother of God…! He…she…in _our regiment_…a lassie…and…sailor…" Images of the unpleasant, filthy jobs he had had this upstart of a Private Young doing as the regiment prepared for their mission skimmed through Sergeant Harker's mind.

"Young…Mrs Maturin," Blunt corrected as he changed the subject. His voice had dropped a little lower and he inclined his head a little as if, Cicely wondered, a small part of him still didn't quite believe her and was weighing her up one last time. "Are you guilty of stealing, or attempting to steal my sergeant major's daughter?" Cicely's eyes widened, hoping the shard of guilt of the thought she'd had, that she did possess, did not show through.

"No, sir," she replied meekly. "I heard…crying…I went in…" Cicely glanced over at Sergeant Harker and smiled faintly. "She's beautiful, sir. She has your eyes."

"I'm sorry about your wrist, Young…Miss," he replied, his eyes darting to her wrist. "Yer shoulder looks a bit mangled an' all," he added, the closest Cicely expected to receive as a reply. Not that she wanted or needed one.

"I'm sorry about yours," she returned.

"It'll heal." Cicely felt herself shiver – it was the middle of the night, or very early morning now and she had more exposed flesh than she was used to. Perhaps the major could avail her of something from the 

"Dismissed, Sergeant Major Harker," concluded Blunt. "I will see to Mrs Maturin. Please, go and comfort your wife. Here." He reached behind him, drawing a thick-fibred blanked towards her. Cicely recognised it, or its kin at any rate. As a member of the regiment for such a short time Cicely's hopeful comfort, lying beneath it after a few arduous days waiting to board HMS Thorn, the ship that had taken them to their brave but ultimately abortive attack on the French mainland, of the Surprise and seeing her husband were brought to the fore as she pulled it round her.

"Last time I saw you, you were aboard the Thorn." Blunt eyed her up and down again, one hand on his hip, the other gesticulating his point. "You and Harris were trying to join us. The republican traitors were killin' the crew. We managed to get to safety but saw the ship burning off the French coast…we thought you dead, Mrs Maturin." Cicely shook her heavy head as the memory of that day, the first step in the onerous path to where she was now.

"We tried to stop them…we fought back, but by the time we had got to the shore the Thorn was already adrift. They'd coated it in something, like pitch but more inflammable. We thought they had the firepower – it was a warship after all – I can't tell you how amazed I am that they didn't fight back."

Cicely found herself nodding slowly, the grim memory of the ship's inadequate, unusable iron. She knew the Thorn would have had cannon – sword and knife too – but the clearly the Thorn's captain had not kept his weapons close at hand or, if he had, they weren't fit for use.

"How did you end up in the south of Spain? It's far from the north of France," Cicely asked. She wondered whether she was pressing the Major too far on something which, as technically still one of his Privates, was both none of her concern or business.

"There were enough loyal to preserve most of my company." Cicely's presumption seemed to be unfounded and Blunt seemed to be relieved to share his experience since they were separated. "We had no orders other than to support the rest of the army and we managed to get out of France on another ship and got to Corunna after you and Harris were captured – " Cicely shuddered again as she thought of poor Matthew Harris, Blunt cut off. He took her arm, eyeing it analytically. It was beginning to darken, the skin was dry and by morning there would be a large weal. He strode decisively to the entrance of his tent.

"Oakley! Water, bandages, now!" Blunt shouted to his corporal, presuming it was Cicely's injuries which had made her quake. Promptly they were supplied and Cicely was surprised that Blunt made to soothe her wounds himself, having invited her to sit on the chair next to his desk, rather than allowing her to do it by herself. She did not complain – Cicely felt fit to drop and the cool water on both her torn shoulder as the major bathed it, and the damp bandage he tied around her burned left hand were as welcome as red at the mizzen during a gun battle.

" – and we've been under siege from the Spanish who are loyal to the Spanish King's alliance with France. You were lucky to find us, Mrs Maturin, " Blunt added as he tied a knot in the bandage. "We were ambushed a couple of days ago and were lucky to meet up with the man who had orders for us to seek out other regiments who were spread out over Spain to give support to the ships at Cadiz."

"And what about you, Cicely? How is it that you find yourself in my company again? You steal, you lie…" Blunt put his large to her face. There was blood on it; Cicely wasn't absolutely convinced that it was hers and she stood up feeling for source.

"…you maim, you abduct…" She shot him a look and was about to protest but the major continued.

"…I know, the lassie cried…" He put his hand back to her cheek, wiping away a tear this time which, despite her best effort, had escaped its duct.

"What else do you do? Cheat…? Fornicate…Kill…?" Cicely took his hand from her face, suddenly annoyed by his mild mocking tone – Richard Blunt was clearly enjoying teasing her.

"Drink. Curse," she admitted, looking away from the major and towards the canvas at the back of the tent. "And I envy too. She…my rival…I've never even met Diana Villiers yet I envy her place in my husband's confidence." The words tumbled from the hidden box that she had thought a stronghold to the shameful feelings she had harboured since Stephen's correspondence to the woman had been revealed by Fouche. Even if she were in the most beautiful dress in France, such as the one she had been wearing in prison when the spymaster had enlightened her to it she would be nothing to Miss Villiers. She was, Cicely knew, beautiful.

"Not if you were standing beside her." Blunt's words were soft, spoken into her ear with a warm breath and she knew she must have said these thoughts aloud too. Cicely swallowed and blushed, not least because she had aired so many of her own private feelings before, technically speaking, her commanding officer.

She turned to face Major Blunt who shot her a satisfied look. He stroked her face and trailed the inside of his hand down her neck. She could smell brandy on the man's breath, his eyes roaming hers, tempting her to give way, tempting her to yield and have him hold her, to love her, just as Stephen did. Cicely's stomach lurched. She turned away.

"So, it's the latter then," he concluded but didn't step away from her. Another comment designed to rile her and Cicely looked into his bright blue eyes and told him of her capture. and that of Matthew Harris, of the prisoner exchange and that Harris had been taken away and shot. Far away that she was from the Victory as she was now guilt hung round Cicely as she told him too of the deal she had been forced to make with Fouche, and how she had absconded having failed to carry it out. She felt the tears prick her eyes again but fought the urge to cry again.

"Major Blunt," Cicely murmured, "please believe me when I say that I wasn't going to take Sergeant Major Harker's daughter." She looked away as quickly, hanging her head at the taupe blanked in which she was shrouded, as she had summoned his attention. "I lost a child, Major Blunt. He was born too soon." Then she looked up as the major took her hands. Cicely chided her own openness but then her tired mind concluded, perhaps now was the time for airing her fears, her doubts, her weaknesses.

"Oh lass," he replied softly.

"I have gone over that day time and time again in my nightmares, when my days are at the blackest." Then Cicely found herself smiling a little at the thought of what she now must do. "I must get back to my ship, my original ship, the Surprise," she concluded. It wasn't the best plan, but it was the only plan. It may even be on the other side of the world, or back at Portsmouth though Cicely doubted it as so many ships had been heading west then south, following the Victory's wake as ships of the line.

"Our contact with our orders, he said he too was seeking out a ship called HMS Surprise." Cicely sighed at Blunt's invaluable information and she felt her heart race. If the Surprise was there, in dock at Cadiz she could get back to it. No doubt they would be recruiting for hands, ordinary seamen to do the hard work. She could speak to Aubrey, relay all that she had been through. Tell him of Stephen. Her eyes darted towards the tent entrance and she took a step towards it. Blunt however did not move out of her way.

"There's no point you wastin' yer energy tryin' to get back there tonight. You told me yerself that the Navy at breakfast-time. Besides," Blunt's face twisted into a grin, "I can't let you go. A deserter from both the Navigationals and the Navy? Someone would pay a pretty penny for one such as yourself." Cicely looked at him in shock, and saw the teasing merriment in his eyes. She ignored the bait.

"Please, accept my hospitality once again Cicely Maturin." He gestured towards his bed roll. I'll get yer some ale if yer now abide it. You may as well rest, till then." Despite herself, Cicely yielded, sitting down on the major's bed.

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The sound of drill practice roused Cicely from a relatively restful slumber. Crossed thoughts in her mind, confused by her surroundings and the urge to think of a good reason to give the sergeant major for her lateness to lines, Cicely sat up and rubbed her eyes.

"Cicely Maturin." Major Blunt was standing at the entrance to his tent and she blinked again, trying to assimilate the conflicting sense-provoking signals, not least the impatient throbbing in her left wrist. "Did yer rest well, lass?" He was holding a tin plate of what looked like bread and meat. Cicely hoped that it was for her.

"Well," she nodded as Blunt sat next to her on his bed. Sure enough he proffered the plate. Cicely tried to eat it in a ladylike fashion but then gave in – she hadn't eaten properly for a couple of days – and she bit into it fervently trying not to let the words he had spoken to her the night before, the touch that she had rejected darted like an arrow through her mind as it was threatening to do as he sat inches from her.

"Nothing untoward happened, Mrs Maturin," Blunt continued, as if he had just read her mind. She put down the now-empty plate and turned to look at him gratefully.

"Thank you, Major. For everything." Cicely got to her feet as did Blunt.

"It's dawn, lass," he added as Sergeant Major Harker bawled at the soldiers and recalled glimpses of their fight several hours before. "You'd better get goin' if you're gonna make recruitin' at the docks." Cicely nodded and smiled again. The major, no matter his background, his manner, had been kinder to her than anyone had been for a long time.

Cicely stuck out her hand and Richard Blunt shook it, and nodded. Then Cicely shook her head, as if an errant fly had taken up residence within her brain.

"I'm a known deserter. They'll be looking for me…" Before Cicely had a chance to finish her sentence, let alone consider her next move Blunt took up the uniform which he had brought into his tent with him when he had arrived.

"Here. Our last uniform." His tone was authoritative with a hint of ironic joviality. " Heaven knows what you did with the last one you were issued, Private Young." Lining the cell she had shared with Harris by now, Cicely replied silently. She had replaced it with the beautiful Parisian dress that she had been given to wear by Fouche as a lure to detain her in royalist France.

"And a note written and signed by me." He handed her a piece of folded paper. "I lost you as part of my regiment when the Thorn was ambushed. You were never officially off my roll and, until I knew your whereabouts, could not discharge you, or list you as dead." He smirked, as if sharing a joke with her. "You were captured and forced into service for the French. That means your neck is still mine. But not for much longer." He held out a hand.

"Your shilling," he prompted. Cicely raised her eyebrows, then frowned. She hadn't anything of value on her, let alone money of any kind.

"Lost with my uniform, I regret to inform you, sir," she replied sardonically.

"There. Be more careful with that! You are discharged from the army, Robert Young. I hope your continued service to King and Country in the Navy is successful."

"Thank you, Major Blunt." Cicely turned once she got to the tent flap, wishing she had a means of repaying for her trespasses and saluted. Richard Blunt's face broke into a wide grin and he laughed aloud.

"You'll make a soldier yet, yer salt-lickin' Jack Tar!"

When her form was a mere fleck on the steep, downward slope, on her way to Cadiz harbour he smiled again. "Good luck, Cicely," he whispered as she disappeared and hoped that none of his men had seen him send her a French _adieu_.

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A "French adieu" is a blown kiss into the wind, or it is 'round our way. Nothing suggestive, I hasten to add!


	23. Unyoked

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The man who had fought with the green jacket rifles when they were under siege from loyalist Spanish was indeed seeking the HMS Surprise. But this wasn't the ship he was to board nor his prime objective. He had managed his secondary mission well – many regiments had amalgamated in the north-east region of Spain. The Catalans would welcome them, he knew, and Wellesley would soon locate them.

He had slept overnight in a small tavern snuggled away in the centre of the port-town. His flawless language coupled with his Castilian accent had sold him as, if not local, a loyalist, and he had been able to gather information vital to his mission by merely sitting in the inn and listening to the men talk away. How rich a mine was a roomful of half-inebriated men for the details he sought were mundane and basic to the common ear.

Looking into the morning sunlight the spy knew he had to wait for dusk. To board the ship in board daylight was not only folly but a death sentence. Besides which he had several means to embark using, bizarre, incongruous yet highly effective means. That would be the easy part. To carry out his plan with so many ever-changing variables was a situation best dealt with it when it occurred.

For now, the plan to board the flagship was enough to occupy his mind. That and other gentlemanly pursuits would occupy his time until night fell. A small measure of freedom. He smiled at the autumnal sunshine and thanked the maker for such a clement day.

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It was early in the morning and Henry Gordon felt light on his feet as he made his way across London. The mile between Cheapside and Whitehall, where Admiralty House was located passed swiftly and it felt to Gordon that no time had passed since his booted feet pressed onto the cobbles outside one of the grander houses in the misnomered Cheapside than he had reached the outside door behind which the stairs led up to his office.

Raymond Cope had been invaluable to him. He had known Cope when they had been young men working in the offices of Government. They had spent many long hours in taverns, alehouses and coffee shops bemoaning their seniors and the arduous expectations that they pressed upon the juniors (and which Gordon and Cope, in turn now pressed upon the young in their employ).

He had visited the man unannounced the night before and Cope had welcomed him as if he had only seen Henry Gordon the day before, as a long-held, close acquaintance. He had explained the difficulty, implications and possible consequences for both the Lord Admiral and the Royal Navy as a whole and the two of them, buoyed by both the intellectual academic challenge and warming liquor had spent the night tussling with the dilemma until an answer had been sought.

Half an hour later and the information that Gordon had obtained in copious note form (which would duly be filed in the Admiralty records) had been reworked into a letter for his superior. Admiral Nelson would be pleased, Gordon knew, that the fragment of grit in the shoe of the service had been removed before severe damage could be done.

It went like this: a woman was her father's property until she became her husband's property through the institute of marriage in principle. In practice it was her worldly possessions which became the property of her husband and if she were the only descendant of her father, were he to die anything of his would automatically cede to her husband. That is where her father consented to the marriage by the signing of the marriage certificate.

Were a woman to marry without consent however, the practicalities of their marriage should still be upheld however, and this is where Gordon had found himself guffawing loudly in Cope's study as his belated friend had relayed it to him, if her father (and she were the only family descendant) had_ not_ signed the marriage certificate and he were to die the woman's husband would gain nothing.

So Hollum had no call on the validity of his daughter's marriage however he could bring the issue to the courts as challenge and offer evidence that Cicely Emma Hollum had married under duress, or other mitigating circumstances of invalidity; that she had been out of her wits, or mad, for example and such lines of discourse, especially in the caballious world in which Marquess Sir Richard Hollum, KG. As he had predicted however, Gordon knew that Cicely Maturin would have to be present in an English court of law for it to be proven.

Marquess, thought Gordon as he looked over his neat, succinct missive. Hollum had full knowledge of the unlawful death of his son, Edward Hollum, by his own hand and so, Mrs Cicely Maturin would therefore be his only lawful descendant. She would inherit the title of Marchioness of Gloucester.

It was no wonder that the debt-ridden man was fighting for a decree of invalidity on his daughter's marriage to Dr. Stephen Maturin and no wonder too that the rich Benjamin Wigg, of common birth, was seeking nobility. Wigg would inherit more than a title, he would break into the peerage system and sit in the House of Lords. With many scandals and indiscretions both in and out of his closet this would allow Wigg, who had inherited vast sums from his now-deceased first wife's family and appropriated yet more, had a stranglehold on legal matters surrounding his enemies.

Oh yes, thought Gordon, as he dripped dark red sealing wax onto the join of the fold of the letter. What a union between Wigg and Hollum. He pressed the official seal into the now-cooling oily substance. That was the measure of it.

Henry Gordon rarely despised anyone. His father had been wealthy enough to allow him a decent education which had led him to the desk behind which he was sitting. Gordon knew that to get on in life others were needed to give you a push up. In his book, this was acceptable.

What he loathed was the opposite – the active pursuit by gentry and the like of advantage and indluence in order to press people down, to leave them broken, blackmailed, in a stranglehold for the sake of greed. This mutual agreement, with no consideration for those around them, not least the Royal Navy and Lord Nelson, who would likely be disgraced, were this to fall wrongly, irked Gordon. He had seen so many people he knew and cared for be-heeled, cast aside, denied promotion all for the whim of corrupt aristocracy. There were times when even the most order-loving Henry Gordon felt himself empathising with the French republicans.

Had that woman, for whose wellbeing Gordon would not otherwise have cared, not displayed her opinion of the union in her subsequent actions with respect to her father's and intended husband's plans?

The Admiral would be free of it now, Gordon thought, as was he. As long as the girl never returned to the country while her father lived, so she was – and everyone else involved too. And to know it would scupper the plans of two utterly contemptible men made the result of his effort ever the sweeter.

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The preparations for the impeding battle on HMS Surprise were progressing well. First Lieutenant William Mowett, his hat pressed back on his head and his neck bent back into the best rays of an autumn sun oversaw the precise preparations. Hos route took him across the main deck to the mizzen, where yet more fresh linen was being hoisted, stays and rollers oiled with whale-grease and ropes attended.

The ship, as all the other ships adjacent thereof, was carrying out their well-practised, well-organised routines. This, Mowett – and every officer – knew, was what gave the Royal Navy the edge over their enemies. The men handled their sails and fired their guns more quickly than their rivals; their ships were cleaner which helped to reduce losses to disease.

The crews were well organised, well drilled, coherent teams. They followed orders to the letter – even the lowliest Ordinary knew their role was important and in the heat of battle, when chaos and destruction was all around, such a man would stamp upon his terror and use it as a step to courage and bravery, such bravery, that he never dreamed possible. It was that extra step, that conscientiousness, instilled in every jack by the rigid hierarchy, by the patriotic fervour and gloriousness of victory, which was lacking in their French counterparts. No, concluded Mowett, the French were unlikely to succeed at sea.

Like him. Climbing the steps to the mizzen he looked aloft at the top-mastmen who were tying in the linen. An able seaman, Johnson, lowered his head and saluted. Mowett nodded brusquely, as was custom. Not that he was a failure – William Mowett had come to his current rank under Captain Aubrey legitimately – but his rising was not due to his own skill or prowess – Pullings had been promoted Captain of the ill-fated Acheron – even though he knew Aubrey would not have promoted him unless he was sure that he was capable.

Not that it bothered him: William Mowett was an unlikely seaman and he had risen far. No, he mused contentedly as he did the final wheel to the other set of steps which led back down to the main deck, not for him the burden of promotion to Captain – retirement from the service would come before that.

A deck hand saluted Mowett as he descended. He was pleased to see the men were good spirits as the battle drew near. They would spend the day making good and the night making merry, with grog and rum, with song and with women. Mowett himself had shooed off the last of the weak-moralled women at dawn though he knew that most of them, local girls making money to top up their wages as cleaners and housekeepers, would be back that night.

More probably, Mowett contemplated as he surveyed the quay below. In an hour or so, once the sun was high, Lieutenant Blakeney would be bringing aboard much needed hands chosen from the throng. He had been a little put out that it was not he who was to choose the men – as next in rank it was usually the 1st Lieutenant's privilege. William Blakekney had expressed his enthusiasm for the task and Aubrey had allowed him.

Another man, Mowett realised, may well have been rankled by this. Blakeney was a born leader, he would inevitably be a captain, if not higher in rank, whereas Mowett, though he was good, whether through age, confidence…something always held him back from making the leap forward and now he was waiting out his final years of service. He didn't begrudge the young man's emphatic enthusiasm. Not that his lack of ambition hold him back; this realisation of a pressure-free service comforted Mowett, made him feel free as the wind. Perhaps when he retired he could make real his ambition to publish his poetry.

"Looks like plenty for Lieutenant Blakeney to choose from." His inspection took Mowett next to Captain Aubrey who was also scrutinising the potential crew below. It was one of the processes he liked least in service, especially when so many ships required more hands. Such was the case many men, especially those least appropriate to the task, vied with one another for selection.

Below them a group had been bunched together by the Surprise's Royal Marines as the calls from the ships around them beckoned men to choose their potential vessel. The men who wanted to serve had to choose carefully – they had to either know the skills that the ship required for an edge over others (especially amongst numbers that thronged on the quay that day) or be prepared to fight over unskilled positions for which the competition was much higher.

"I'll have to look at any chits of course," continued Aubrey as Mowett looked down at the men. "You'd've been the one to do it, William, if you'd been selecting of course." Any men who had expressed a desire to be a part of a ship's crew and produced a letter of recommendation would automatically be put ahead of the rest.

"Indeed, sir," nodded William. He picked out William Blakeney below, ably carrying out the selection procedure. "He's coping rather well, sir."

"He is," nodded Jack, looking back at Mowett. "You should be congratulated for standing aside for him." William Mowett noticed Aubrey's eyes narrow for a second. He knew him well enough to know that the question was a weighted one, designed to delve further than just the surface.

"It's quite all right, sir," Mowett replied, deliberately avoiding the unspoken question. "My tenure as lieutenant is close to. Six years will be up once we get back to England." Jack smiled and Mowett returned it. He seemed about to say something else when Barrington, one of his newer midshipmen, begged his forgiveness for interrupting. He had some papers for the Captain.

"All will be well, sir," continued Mowett, scanning the main deck. "Dr. Hardy is good with the men." Now, thought Jack to himself. The trouble was, no matter how good he was at his job he wasn't Stephen. He was a brass player, for a start, not string. Had Stephen Maturin to be found on the Victory the night before Jack would have had his viewpoint, invaluable that it was to him. So often it was sound, so often it was accurate. Were he there, perhaps Surprise would be where she should have been, in one of the fighting lines. He sighed. There was no point wishing for something that could now never be.

When Mowett had made his move towards the fo'csle, inspecting the men as he went, Jack glanced at the dozen or so memoranda before looking back at his First Lieutenant. Some captains in his position would doubt Mowett's commitment, that his lack of ambition meant carelessness and unassiduousness but Jack knew that Mowett, coming late in life to the service, was proud of his progress and loyal to boot. Were he in a similar position, wouldn't he take a comfortable retirement and return to his first love? That of the literative variety.

He looked past Mowett and at the general making-ready. He may well have been shamed before his counterparts the previous night but unprepared his ship was not going to be – he couldn't, he wouldn't shame his men so. He was to flank the flagship and not engage: those were Jack's orders and he would damn well see that they were carried out as effectively, promptly and honourably as he could possibly see that they could be. It was a bitter tonic to swallow but, Jack reminded himself, Nelson could well, for the shame, left the Surprise out of the battle altogether.

Jack looked down at the assortment of paper types and sizes written as they were by a diversity of hands using a variety of inks. Some of them were in Portuguese – many of Portugal's fighting men had crossed the border so as to make it known their country's loyalty, despite that of their neighbours. Even local Cadizians were there. Technically they were Spanish and would be fighting their fellow countrymen once they engaged the combined enemy fleet but down here the loyalty extended only to the nearest nugget of gold.

Some were in English, though. Several were old recommendations which led Jack to wonder what they had been doing since their previous service. An eruption of sound below curtailed Jack's reading of the advocations and he looked down at a surge of men pushing their way through the line which Blakeney was examining. He leaned forward, looking for Blakeney. Shouts came from the quay and then rifle-fire. The crush had subsided almost as quickly as it began and further shouts travelled upwards.

"…no more, no more…!" Howard, captain of the marines seemed to be shouting towards the unsuccessful line-breakers, "…hold…hold…"

Between the men that Blakeney was examining and those desperate to be considered the Marines had formed a barrier. To the left though, some of those rebuffed however weren't taking the warnings from the Marines. Aubrey shook his head and turned back to the

"Excuse me sir." William Barrington, his pale blue eyes shimmering, earnestly bearing another couple of letters. "More for your consideration."

"Thank you," replied Aubrey, turning back to the crowding below.

"No more I say, no more!" Captain Howard's voice rang through again and he discharged his weapon. This time however the unsuccessful men did retreat, slowly back towards the harbour. He looked back to the half dozen of the letters. The Portuguese ones he was unable to read but he would accept them anyway, loyal that they were and determined to demonstrate their autonomy to Spain.

"Sir." A breathless Barrington stood before him again, yet another letter in his hand.

"No more, Barrington," Aubrey replied but the middie did not lower his hand.

"Lieutenant Blakeney, sir," he continued, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. "He told me you should read this, sir." Narrowing his eyes momentarily Aubrey as he eyed the brief reference. The other letters fluttered out of his hand and landed softly on the deck by Jack's feet. Then they widened, flashing past Barrington and back down to the quay, searching out a redcoat. When he could not find such a figure he thrust the letter back into the midshipman's hand.

"Tell Blakeney to bring – " Losing his words, he flapped his hand towards the letter, jerk ing back round to the quay. When he realised Barrington was still standing there he wrenched his neck back and shouted at the confused midshipman.

"_Now_, Barrington! Go! Go!"

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	24. Those Gone and Those who Remain

Four bells at the forenoon watch. Damn halfhour glass! That made it halfway through the morning, for civilised folk, about ten o'the clock at Greenwich. He had spent several weeks travelling through hostile country, _French_ country: that had been bad enough. Then things had got too close form comfort and instead of taking his intended route into Spain with a Spanish vessel.

It had been little trouble to gain passage with the Spanish brig – there was only one man who could…could have…rivalled him in the art of disguise. His appearance as a French soldier who was looking for his regiment in the south of Spain, flawless army-private French gand the job was done. Upon docking and a change to Captain, location of a genuine ship which had moored with the fleet and a ten minute delay for its captain while he took his place for less than half an hour.

Now, aboard the flagship of the fleet, glorious HMS Victory as a Royal Marine, his legitimate papers from Admiralty House under a acceptably fictitious name and his place was secure. If only it weren't for the damned bells!

The spy knew that the Navy's efficiency was almost all attributable to its attention to detail and timekeeping was its strong point. Had he the choice he would happily give another six months on the brig and be on the opposing side come tomorrow – the Spanish were tardy in their timekeeping, preferring to use inefficient French timepieces – than put up with another day of the bells!

"…and the Son and the Holy Ghost…"

All men were assembled on the Victory's deck now. Captain Hardy, his head bowed over the ship's official-issue bible, a King James Authorised, took prayers for the day. Unlike any other Sunday however, the afternoon would not be given over to the crew. Instead they were to continue with preparations for battle until sundown after which short two-hour shifts were to be carried out to preserve the men's strength for the day that was to follow.

They were to engage the enemy; that much the spy knew. What would follow would certainly be a superb cover for the assassin. And he who would assassinate the assassin.

Head bent in supplication with the rest the spy stared at the planks of the main deck in his view. It was no coincidence that he had been made chief spy for the military – his position as an exploring officer for the army; his vast espionage experience his unofficial exploits as a thief of monarchs, of thrones, rich men – influential…arrogant…witless…of chieftains, lairds, rajahs, sultans…their wives and lovers too…

…this would be the first time that he would have dethroned an emperor however…and what an emperor to have brought down in Napoleon Bonaparte…

"…will remain with us, foul or fair, tempests or fine…"

The prayer was continuing far longer than expecting – he wondered how many more invocations and blessings Hardy could tease out of the Blessed Lord to harbour against possible impending ill fortune. His thoughts turned to his role in the battle.

He who would stop the assassin – who would it be? Fouche would only have sent one who was brave or foolish, had been blackmailed with something wholly precious or who had nothing else left to lose. His French counterpart certainly would not have left it to chance to prevent the assassination of Nelson. Who of these here could it be?

"Amen". Around him eight hundred-odd men chorused the reply to the Lord's Prayer. He raised his head.

He had carried out the basic investigations of course, ascertained who aboard may have any interest to do such a thing, any history between him and other seamen on the Victory…

…his mind wandered a little to his magnificent and long-departed equal. How the dear Doctor would have revelled in his covert exploits so far, and those to follow! He almost wished Stephen Maturin could be there with him as he worked the next day…alas, of course, it was not to be: he was now serving the last of his orders faithfully for the country he hated to the end.

And yet, when he considered the assassin, he invariably thought of the man. Not one to dismiss coincidence, the spy put the nugget to the back of his mind to analyse later.

He looked to his station as gulls overhead screeched their cry. The assassin was now busy with his legitimate work. He must keep him safe – he had an important role on the morrow. Looking up he spotted more gulls, being chased off the rigging by the top men.

Some men, sailors and common hands, believed that, when a seaman died his spirit was taken in by a seabird and that he soared high above everything, above mast-tops, through the clouds and squalls for the rest of eternity. Perhaps his former colleague had sent his spirit to join one of the gulls overhead now. Perhaps he was looking down at him. If he were, he may well be damning his soul to the devil.

Stephen Maturin. He smiled to himself faintly as he moved off to continue his false duty. The ghost of William Wickham's closest rival danced macabrely in his mind, as if his corpse had got to its feet and danced a gangly dance in the Parisian square in which it had died as he crossed the main deck to the mizzen. He was playing his own supporting role in Wickham's mission by being entirely absent from it.

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"…who will remain with us, foul or fair…"

The words filtered through to Captain Aubrey's cabin. Robert Young stood by the thick oak door, listening to Jack's rounded words infiltrate as she issued the Sunday prayers to the men. It had been important that the new recruits had been aboard to hear the service and he had begun it as soon as William Blakeney had brought the three dozen badly needed hands aboard and all had been assembled on the main deck awaiting Captain Aubrey's presence.

Almost all. That morning two miracles had happened. Firstly she had been taken back aboard the Surprise by Blakeney, who had responded to insistent shouts from the gang plank which turned out to be a rather agitated Captain Aubrey, and second, that she had managed to get to Blakeney in the first place. The crush of men, all desperate to get a place but the loosing of the rifle had made Cicely's heart sink in her chest for she had believed that she would eventually have reached the choosing-line.

Like so many situations in her life when she had little left to lose Cicely's mind had come up with the notion to cause a fuss half way along the line and then use it to distract the Marines' attention. It had worked, to some extent but she had tripped up over the foot of a short, dark haired Portuguese man as she had darted towards the head of the line. Stumbling awkwardly she has scuffed her right hand on the hard wood wharf-planks and her note from Major Blunt had tumbled from her hand.

It had landed a couple of inches from her left hand and, as Cicely had got to her feet she had reached for it but the man over whose foot she had fallen had picked it up. She'd grabbed it back suddenly before he'd had time to take it (such a note was valuable to the chances of selection on the quayside) causing a scuffle as the man had swung at her, hitting the man in front who was in line.

The second gunshot had caused the usurpers to disperse but Cicely had had her chance and she had cuckooed herself into the line, pushing the note into Blakeney's direction and bowing her head reverentially and had tried to keep him talking. She had wondered whether he would recognise her – Will had, in the eight months that had passed since she had seen last seen him, grown much taller, his features more defined and his stance more adult. He spoke as he had always done, his voice soft though naturally authoritarian – you were encouraged, Cicely had always felt, to listen to Will Blakeney when he spoke and enchanted enough to unquestioningly carry out his orders.

Panic has set into her heart as Lieutenant (Cicely had noticed) William Blakeney had handed the note to a midshipman who, out of the corner of her eye, had boarded the Surprise, presumably to give it to someone aboard. Who that someone was became all too clear as Blakeney had marched them on, heralded as they were by Aubrey's commanding tones.

She tried not to look at Jack as she had boarded and Cicely had breathed out heavily when her booted feet trod on the decks that had been so pivotal to her life. But before she had had a chance to think about what was next Robert Young had been marched close-to by Jack having been taken silently out of the group with a hand on her shoulder steering her towards the mizzendeck.

Cicely had heard Mowett speaking the opening words of the Sunday service and, in the secluded corridor outside his office Aubrey had bent his head, looking at her as if his eyes were deceiving him and that he was still in his cot and in an implausible dream.

"Cicely…?" He'd asked, it seemed, just to make sure. She'd nodded and he had taken her in for a moment longer before opening the door and pushing her in.

"Wait there," he'd instructed, tapping her on the shoulder, unknowingly her injured one, a couple of times as if to check that she were not a mirage. Then he paced in one stride back to the door and, without looking back, he opened it again. A second passed, and then a click from the latch, indicating Aubrey had locked it.

Now Cicely stood, in her new army uniform, next to the door, listening to everything which was going on outside, but not for long as Aubrey's characteristic gait was getting louder as his boots beat the boards. Cicely moved quickly away from the door and stood to one side of his desk hoping she didn't look as if she'd been eavesdropping. She was glad she had moved for the force that the captain now re-entered his quarters caused the oak panels to reverberate as it bounced off the oak wall with a bang in response to Aubrey's force.

"I don't know why you're here Cicely, but you can't be here." Jack Aubrey stalked into his cabin and thrust her vouch from Major Blunt before her on his worn, oak desk, fury etched into his face which seemed to have been made worse by being bottled for three quarters of an hour in order to act as reverend, a task, Cicely knew, he relished least. He took it back up and looked at it, as if it were the lowest, most conniving enemy he had ever seen. "We go to battle on the morrow; the men are preparing for the battle tomorrow," he added, frowning at her as he marched round the opposite side of his desk.

Cicely, in her rifleman-private's uniform felt as though her boots had been rooted to the spot. She watched Jack pull back his chair and sit in it, his muscular bulk filling it.

"I don't know why you're here – " Jack looked up at her, a man at whose table she had dined following Stephen's declaration of love for her and the captain's acceptance of her as his friend's wife. "Do not think that you can fight again aboard my ship!" Was this the man with whom she had discussed art, a subject about which they were both keen and both talented, had confided in a little, had laughed with? Who had taken intimate and horror-filled steps as she bled with her dying child?

Jack Aubrey must have taken in her expression and comprehended it for his face softened and he got up, his head lowered into his shoulders a little. Cicely said nothing. She had expected much worse after the shame she had brought upon him and his wife after all their kindness.

"Oh my dear child!" Jack exclaimed as moved towards her and the thought struck Cicely that he could only be about a dozen or so years her senior and she had been twenty four in May: she could be accurately called many things but she was hardly a child. "You are here…you are safe…"

Cicely watched Aubrey turn up the corners of his lips in a tentative smile and then, most astonishingly, in a quite out-of character move, had hugged her stiffly for a moment. Cicely, who had said nothing to Aubrey felt a sigh in her chest. Not much of a home was HMS Surprise, but to Cicely it was _her _home nonetheless. She had come home.

"Please…" Jack gestured to her left at the simple wooden chair near the door to his cabin that usually upheld his now-absent violin. "Sit down, Cicely. Please tell me everything…how it was you made it back to the ship, and why…?" Cicely said nothing but felt herself quake as she took one step

"First, Captain Aubrey, please may I pass on my categorical gratitude, my thanks for your un hospitality…Sophie – " But she couldn't manage it. Cicely heard her voice begin to squeak and mangle. She lowered her head and sobbed, her shoulders wracking as she tried to hold in the salty tears. How shameful, before her captain. Or, before her husband's friend.

" – Mowett! Blakeney…!" Jack looked over his shoulder as Cicely continued to stand sobbing by the side of his desk. His two lieutenants appeared promptly, Mowett's face in fixed in a genial, expectant expression; Blakeney's one of a confused frown – Aubrey having just instructed him to inspect the armoury.

"Mr. Mowett?"

"Yes sir?" Mowett caught a few glimpses of the green army uniform over the captain's shoulder.

"Bring food, some rum." Everything seemed better after some rum, and God knew, as well as she, he definitely needed some of his own. "Oh, and some bandages. Looks as if her hand's quite bad. Could you ask Dr. Hardy if he could spare a few moments?"

"Yes sir," replied the first Lieutenant, frowning slightly as if the syntax hadn't registered correctly. "Blakeney?"

"Yes sir?" His young lieutenant turned from glancing at the confusion on Mowett's face as he turned to leave, and looked at Aubrey expectantly.

"Do you remember this?" He unfolded his hand showing the letter of recommendation that Blakeney had passed to John Barrington which the middie had then passed to him.

"Yes, sir. But why – " Jack swallowed and looked firmly at Blakeney, knowing the bucketful of weevils his revelation was about to spill.

"Did you read it, Will?" His voice was low, punctuated by infrequent sobs. When Blakeney remained silent, Jack handed him the paper then took a step back, as if an incendiary had landed by his feet. Once Blakeney had finished he looked sharply at Captain Aubrey before directing his stare past him.

"Cicely?" Blakeney half whispered. Jack found himself nodding as he took another step inside, his back to the door opening up the lad's frame of sight.

"Try to calm her down, for pity's sake!" He watched Blakeney's hasty gallop towards Cicely, his pace slowing as he took in her distress. She looked at him as Aubrey closed the door, her sobs waning.

"Cicely! You're…you're…not a sailor…?" Cicely had followed orders, on two occasions now, given by William Blakeney, an aspiring officer who held command over the majority of men aboard the Surprise. Now he was speaking to her as if he were a fettered youth quietly but urgently concerned with the welfare of a relative.

"She is now you took her on," replied Jack, a hint of humour in his voice. When both of them stared at him he added. "No! She's neither." He fell silent, folding his arms as the pair, as if siblings, spoke to one another quickly and gently.

"You've come back…how did you manage…? What's caused you to…?"

"I think we'd all like to know that," replied Jack Aubrey soberly.

"There's so much that's changed since you went," continued Will, as if he was welcoming a long lost member of the family. "Bonden, he'll want to talk to you I know – his reading's improved…Tranter too, but there are plenty of new – "

"No," interrupted Aubrey sharply, drawing Cicely's attention away from Will's list of people who would be pleased to see her, and his lieutenant too. "Mr. Blakeney, as lieutenant, and Mr Mowett in his stead at First Liutenant, you should know that she is here, the doctor too – " he looked widely past Blakeney at Cicely, " – I think Dr. Hardy would be grateful of some work before the battle tomorrow and from the look of you, I think you need it." He looked at Blakeney again. "No more of my crew are to know, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Dr. Hardy…?" Cicely spoke her words aloud – she recalled the name. In Captain Hardy's cabin had been his belongings, similar to those of Stephen's, which was probably why she had been drawn to them. Beatty had been the man actively carrying out medical duties on the flagship however: Cicely had met him. So why was Thomas Hardy here?

And then it dawned on her that if Hardy was the doctor for the Surprise then Stephen wasn't actually there. She had known it, of course, in Fouche's dealing but, following her desertion from the Victory and her failed attempt on Lebec's life she had hoped to see him soon. So, he was a prisoner of Fouche. And, if she failed to stop the ex-Acheron captain, he would be a corpse of Fouche. Cicely's confusion and anxiety showed on her face despite her efforts to conceal them.

"Dr. Hardy is our surgeon for the moment," Jack replied simply. Then he turned in reply to the knock on the door. A rather unservicelike hug from Cicely to Blakeney, about which Jack gave a disapproving "hmph" preceded the Captain's dismissing of Blakeney to his armoury duty and first and second lieutenants traded place, Mowett being followed by Hardy. He stood adjacent the door to allow the doctor entry and Jack closed the door again.

"Mr. Mowett, thank you for bringing Dr. Hardy – please don't leave just yet," he added as Lieutenant Mowett made to salute. "Dr. Hardy, I would be most obliged if you would assess Mrs Maturin here."

"Mrs…Maturin?" Through his round-framed spectacles Hardy peered around the office, overlooking Cicely before landing his eyes on Jack, before glancing at the door to his cabin expectantly.

"Yes, doctor." This time Cicely spoke, removing her hat and smiling at the slight man and she caught William Mowett's beam of a smile. She had got on well with Mowett; Cicely had been a patient ear for his poetry which, in her amateur opinion was rather good.

"You may use my cabin if you wish," Aubrey continued, gesturing to his right to the adjoining door. Cicely took some keen steps towards it; she was followed only by Hardy's eyes, wide in disbelief. He would know soon enough, Cicely supposed.

Nothing had changed inside the cabin. Aubrey's cot slung across the starboard wall, a snug though not too roomy a bed (roomier than the fourteen inches a seaman's hammock ran to, though); opposite a Chinese screen which had been used for a variety of purposes when she had been…a guest…within when Jack had discovered her identity in the first place, sometimes even as a screen.

Adjacent the screen, which was, for the moment, being used as a table to support a retinue of arms in the process of being cleaned, the portrait of Nelson which Cicely had long stared when she had had little else to do bar wait for Aubrey's decision on her fate. In the corner seemed to be a heap of belongings, which didn't appear to have any order or purpose.

"Er, Mrs Maturin…" Dr. Hardy still looked unsure of what exactly he was supposed to be doing with what looked like an army private in the captain's cabin. "What seems to be the trouble.

"May I explain, doctor?" Hardy did and said nothing and Cicely continued. "My name is Cicely. I'm in disguise. I really am a woman," she added, as if to reinforce her point. "I've a shoulder injury and a burn to my hand – " she held it forward and the bewigged Hardy squinted. "Also my other hand's bruised, but I've had worse."

"May I…take a look at that hand then…?" Hardy was no taller than Cicely. A slight man he was a portly around the middle and wore clothing which was quite in fashion about twenty years previously – long knee-britches and fitted jacket to knee-length, black with white socklets. Under his periwig he seemed to be perspiring a little and he pushed his spectacles up his long nose. Who was she to judge, though? Cicely, a married woman could be equally condemned for her regimental garb, bindings and close-cut hair.

Through Captain Aubrey's adjoining cabin-office door Cicely's ears caught snippets of words that were being exchanged between Jack and William Mowett, though nothing discernable. Hardy assessed her injuries, selecting and sorting from a large leather purse-bag rag-bandage, salve and laudanum. Regarding the latter, Cicely felt a stab of guilt for it was clearly the doctor's own supply she had plundered from Captain Hardy's cabin on the Victory two days before.

The Captain's deep, rich tones pervaded through again as Hardy dabbed tentatively at her hand as did the tenoric timbre of his first lieutenant. Between the two officers there was a gulf, a "them" and "us" and though unlikely, it was more unlikely that she, Cicely, should be there at all and Jack may wish to discuss it with his next in command.

"May you remove your tunic, Mrs Maturin?" The doctor looked as if he was fixing his neck rigidly to continue to look at her rather than looking away as a man might if a woman was undressing before her but seemed relieved to see that her femininity was still concealed.

"Mrs Maturin, your shoulder is not in the healthiest of conditions. There is no bullet, but your clothing – not this cloth, has caused infection. Here." Thomas Hardy handed her a vial of something. "Medic-spirit," he added, nodding in her direction. Cicely understood the pseudonym, and that the brandy was thus named to prevent common theft. "You need to drink it – oh," he finished for Cicely had swigged it before he had got past the "you". "I need to pare a little skin to stop the infection spreading.

Cicely felt herself quake a little – she knew of the technique, seen Stephen use it as a preventative measure just as Hardy was about to. But the hands did not show fear even though she knew they felt the pain. The blade that Hardy was holding seemed reasonably sharp.

"Here." He pulled over a chair that was residing behind the makeshift screen-table. Cicely sat down and adjusted herself squarely, determined to be brave about it too. "Can you turn, if you please? Dangle you arm over the back." She swivelled round and gripped the top of the chair back under her armpit and held onto the lower slat with her hand with as much strength as she could.

"Would you believe me if I told you this won't hurt at all, young lady?" In contrast to his prior interaction which had been stand-offish, efficient and to the point this sentence conveyed some character and Cicely, having been aboard the Victory for nearly a month and witnessed more of Hardy's former manner in both the officers and the hands wondered whether the his personality had developed amongst the geniality and comparative wholesomeness and spirit of the crew of the Surprise.

"Not in the least, doctor," Cicely replied, gritting her teeth, waiting for the cut. It didn't come – as he was about to cut the door opened and Aubrey took a step in. Cicely turned, looking at Aubrey who appeared to be about to say something to Hardy. Instead he took in Cicely's shoulder and she realised the bullet-graze must look damned ugly for Jack to recoil slightly.

"Once you are finished, Mrs Maturin, I would be grateful for your company in my office."

Twenty minutes later, with fresh blood soaking into her binds, a throbbing in her shoulder which appeared to hurt more than the original injury and which the brandy both externally pressed and internally consumed having done little to allay the pain, Cicely was sitting on the ladder-backed chair which Jack had brought in with her from his cabin. He was alone, Lieutenant Mowett having been sent to his duty. She sat opposite his desk, as if about to participate in an interview as Jack sat opposite in his sturdy oak panelled, velvet-lined chair.

"It is good to know you are safe, Cicely," Aubrey began as he beheld his friend's wife, former mizzenlad and later, the ship's nurse and teacher. And now, briefly, mizzenlad again. "However you do understand that you cannot be Robert Young again."

"Yes," Cicely replied evenly. "It was never my intention to remain as my alias. You surely know that I left the company of your wife," she continued, but felt the words begin to choke in her throat again. "Captain Aubrey – "

"Jack, Cicely," he prompted. "We know one another well enough to be on first name terms, surely?" She nodded. "You sought to reassure Sophie," he continued, "and for that I am unreservedly grateful. Perhaps it would be easier if you told me your account? Your reasons will be implicit, of that I am sure." Cicely felt herself sigh, as if a burden had been lifted somewhat. Considering his demeanour when she had first boarded, though it must have been a shock to Jack Aubrey, she had feared her plight might be met with hostility and disdain.

And so, Cicely Maturin began to tell her story since she had waved to Jack and Stephen at the dockside in Portsmouth five months before. It took her a few abandoned sentences for Cicely to phrase what she wanted Jack to know but once she had begun, her narrative was smooth and to the point, clear of emotion and uncluttered. Every so often Aubrey chipped in where his side fitted with hers, their stories melding like tin and copper in the formation of the bronze ingot of the chronicle.

She spared him nothing either, the cumbersome, secret truth being shed from her mind as she spoke. Cicely told him of how she tried to get to the ship in England, and had taken up navigational employment, how she had been robbed, and taken care of by a military regiment, how she had been caught up in war in France and captured by spies of Bonaparte, and given the task to assassinate the assassin. She had deserted and by sheer coincidence re-encountered the regiment who had given her temporary shelter, commanded by Major Blunt, who had given her the recommendation letter.

"Had you not had this," he held the note, still folded, between his fingers, "then you may not have been here – I am so, so _sorry_," Jack concluded at length, as Cicely tailed off as she approached the present moment. "That you have borne so much, to get here…"

"The assassin must be stopped," Cicely interjected. His sympathy was not unwelcome, but irrelevant to the situation.

"The fleet sails tomorrow," Aubrey replied, steepling his fingers over his table. "Hmph. We must be ready, be in as orderly shape as possible."

"We fight tomorrow?" Cicely asked, knowing the answer to be true. Jack cleared his throat once again and put his hands on his desk, pushing the chair back with his posterior and getting to his feet. Then he paced down the side of the desk, his hands on his hips, then stopping abruptly and, leaning over slightly towards the still-seated Cicely cleared his throat again.

"The fleet goes to battle, but I have orders not to fight! Hmph!" He turned and made his way back in the opposite direction, towards the window. "And that's "Surprise," Cicely, not "we," he added, glancing over his shoulder and looking at her sternly. Cicely said nothing – she could tell it was a sore, rankling point and it seemed that Jack Aubrey would very much like five minutes with the person who had given him that news.

"What can we do about the assassin, then? "

"I have orders not to fight, but I have orders to sail." He interrupted and his tone was cursive, to the point and he remained with his back towards her. "I will write a letter to the flagship requesting an appointment so I can speak to the Captain." Something didn't seem right: he was avoiding discussing the situation or even looking at her. Why was he focusing on telling her his ignominious orders rather than recognising the urgency of the assassin who was to kill the Lord Admiral?

Just then, a knock on the door aborted Cicely's attempt at furthering her point. She had not expected the person who had been summoned forth and any idea of the her case went out of her head as she exclaimed, "Matthew!"

"Cicely!"

"Mrs Maturin, if you please, Harris," corrected Jack grimly. It seemed that, contrary to her appearance Captain Aubrey was determined that the proper manner would be followed.

"No!" she exclaimed again, aghast. Cicely took a couple of steps in his direction and stopped. "Matthew! I…you…"

"I last saw you on the dockside at Yport!" Matthew Harris seemed as astonished to see her she was to see him. "You're in '105th' uniform…"

"Never mind that," Cicely replied, now a foot between them smiling back at Harris's own irrepressible grin. "You got shot…didn't you?"

"Does it look like it?" Harris put his hands on his hips as if to offer her a chance of inspection. He caught Aubrey's stern expression however and reined in his enthusiasm. "There was a skirmish, in the grounds where we went – "

" – you turned into the courtyard – "

" – the guards didn't know what to do; they fired some warning shots into the walls. We got onto the quayside just after the Victory had sailed. I was made up when I saw the Surprise, I really was," he added, just to labour the point to the ship's captain but stopped short of mischievously winking at Mrs Maturin.

"I thought you were dead," Cicely repeated. She looked around Aubrey's office then back to Harris. "I deserted the Victory…it's a long story," she added as he raised his eyebrows," I ran into Major Blunt again and managed to get back here. But I have to get back to the Victory to stop an assassin!"

Cicely's plan had been forming in her mind and chose that moment to reveal her plan, the only possible course of action that to her was sensible, to Jack Aubrey. Instead of countermanding her declaration as Cicely had counted on him certainly doing Jack said nothing.

"Your leave, Harris," prompted Aubrey brusquely. A momentary pause, as if Matthew Harris was about to say something in reply but instead saluted him.

"Good to see you safe, Matthew," Cicely half-whispered as he left. He turned and grinned, but not so widely as customarily.

"You too."

Cicely looked in Jack's direction. He was still looking out of the window down onto the dock. Her astonishment at Harris's being alive was usurped by Aubrey's unwillingness to look at her.

"There is an assassin aboard Victory, Captain," Cicely said plainly as if to summarise her current end.

"Were my orders no object I would happily engage in the melee." Aubrey turned and half-smiled at Cicely. "What do you propose should be done, Cicely?" The question was genuine, not derisory or scornful.

"Remain in your company until such a time that I can return to Victory and confront the assassin."

"Then that is what you shall do."

"But," Cicely protested, aghast, "are you not breaking the direct orders of the Admiral of the Fleet?"

"I think it is the safety of our Lord Admiral supersedes any other orders by which I am bound, even if they do come from the aforementioned Lord Admiral." He smiled and unfolded his arms and moved towards his desk. Sliding open the thin drawer beneath its top Jack withdrew a letter, string-bound, and held it towards Cicely.

"It arrived for you after you left for England," Jack qualified as Cicely approached the desk and took it from him. She pulled off the coarse twine and opened it, reading it twice. On the second reading she annotated aloud to Aubrey.

"It's from my uncle…my mother's brother…he used to live in Norwich…he's a clockmaker…" She scanned down. "He's made a large sum of money from an invention…he has set up a life on the Carteret Islands…" Cicely choked down a giggle as she read on, "…the natives have made him their king!" With this, she looked at Jack mirthfully. "He invites…he invites…me…me and Edward to live with him…"

Cicely stopped, staring down at her uncle's letter again. She remembered it was her last letter she had written before she had set fire to her father's house, before she had run to the sea to find her brother.

"You could still do that, Cicely. There is nothing stopping you from living the rest of your life there."

Slowly, Cicely looked up from the letter, now crumpling in her hand a little as Jack Aubrey's words began to register, sinking in and meshing with everything they had just been discussion. Why would he suggest that when she had a task to do, for the sake of someone dear to them both?

She looked towards the Queen Anne chair. Aubrey saw her look at it, and Cicely saw him watch her look.

"Where is Stephen?" she asked quietly.

Aubrey said nothing, and Cicely knew, but she knew he had to tell her.

"He was killed. On spying business. He left the Surprise many months ago. Doctor Hardy, who you met just then is his replacement." He looked at her, his large desk between them. I am sorry I am the one to be told this news…only I and Harris know this," he added.

"Not Blakeney…?" Aubrey shook his head.

That he had not sent for Stephen straight away…perhaps she had known it…

Aubrey made as if to comfort her, but Cicely did not move and he stopped, waiting for her reaction.

Instead of breaking down as one part of her mind was telling her that she ought to be doing, Cicely found herself in a treacle of air. Everything seemed surreal…as if she were waiting for the end of a humorous jest or the like and that at any moment Stephen would step through the door now as he had done so many times before, or that he was just in his cabin on the lower deck, and he would call her.

Or he would be examining a beast, with his mounted lens focusing the gizzards to an enlargement which he was sketching or writing down his observations while she was lingering out of sight watching him, or so she thought until, without looking up, he called her in…

"Mt dear child. You need sleep," concluded Jack Aubrey gently. "You need rest. Please, return to my cabin, Cicely. Sleep if you can. You'll be safe there."


	25. Insouciance

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To Cicely's utter amazement she had woken up. Long shadows were being cast through the small window that was adjacent the cot in which Aubrey had offered for her use. He had left her hastily which, Cicely reflected, was probably just as well. She couldn't have stood a drawn out conversation and, as he had closed the door, explaining he would rest in his office that night and that he would send refreshment presently, she had crumpled under the weight of fatigue, grief and emotion next to the now-relieved screen of armoury, she noticed.

Everything Cicely had been through, all that she had done, had risked, had lived through, had loved, for Stephen, about Stephen, with Stephen…now stripped away, gone, final. Bang. As if she had been running as fast as possibly could have and hit an immovable object.

Now, as the light faded, she was lying here in Aubrey's room, where she had once been kept while he and Stephen had decided what to do with her. She had had little choice in the matter regardless of her will. Last time, she was to become a wife. This time, she was a widow. Would she be allowed her autonomy now?

Cicely looked around. She felt a gnawing in her stomach that she recognised as hunger but knew, vaguely, that if she offered sustenance she would only waste the effort gone to in its preparation. She could happily down some grog now, its comforting warmth would soothe her, she knew. Or the laudanum she had left with James Fillings – perhaps its bitter texture that gave a heady relaxation would have enveloped her in its soporific silkiness?

She got down from the spacious cot-hammock and rubbed her eyes. Having shed the confines of her army uniform Cicely stood on the planks as barely audible sounds from the deck emanated to her ears in her uniform-shirt and long under-breeches, acknowledging the freedom that the absence of stifling outer clothing had given to her as she had wept. Locating the uniform which was lying in a stiff cotton pile near Aubrey's cot, where she had left it, Cicely dressed in it again before lighting the oil lamps in the cabin which were now badly needed.

And now…? What happened now?

She looked around her. The room, an oblong was set out much as she remembered. Little in the way of possessions, only those which were of utility on the ship were around to see and at hand – Captain Aubrey's sextant, nautical books, theoretical trigonometric books which gave instruction on calculating set of sail from base and height of the sheets; glass, mariner's quadrant for triangulation and chronometer. She remembered Sophie Aubrey mentioning something of the like to her when she resided at Litten Hall, that anyone would think that Jack and the sea were one, the single-mindedness he paid it when carrying out his duties though her tone and candour were anything but put out by the fact.

And yet the room did seem contain some personal possessions: in the opposite corner below Nelson's portrait, books and papers, a pile of what seemed like rags and unmistakably a glass enlarger. Stephen's glass enlarger. So many times she had seen him use it making as he did his meticulous notes. Drowning her urge to investigate further Cicely's hand was stayed by an overriding feeling of propriety – they were Stephen's belongings. He would need them, he would want them. He wasn't gone, not really, not in her heart. She had no business with them.

Lost in a series of connective thought, beginning as her last thoughts had begun, in that abhorrent French prison, she relived again the events within, of Harris, of the soldiers bent on torture, of Fouche and his dealings. Of his deal. She had been mistaken on the part of Matthew Harris's death – had she been wrong about Fouche? Or should she continue to believe that Stephen was alive and that when she dealt with the Lord Admiral's assassin he would be hers again?

As she contemplated the array of possibilities an abrupt loud knock reverberated on the door and, before Cicely had time to issue a reply the door opened, banging into the writing bureau which was to the right of the door. Preserved Killick cursed under his breath, or so he thought as the door bounced back towards him. He kicked it again and held his foot against it whilst shrugging his way in.

The ship's cook and co-ordinator of all things prandial scanned the room, went to put the tray of 'scouse and jar of beer onto Captain Aubrey's bureau, lowered it, raised it, cursed at his error, looked around again before deciding that the horizontal screen resting on the two stools would be a far better choice. Under his other arm was a bundle of clothing which he allowed to fall to the planks as he lowered the food tray down. This comedic entrance struck Cicely and, despite herself, stifled down a chuckle.

"'ere, Miss," said Killick, gesturing unnecessarily towards the repast – it was quite obvious what it was and who it was for. "Yer supper."

"Thank you, sir," Cicely replied absently. Under her previous incarnation as Robert Young Preserved Killick was not a man with whom she had seen eye to eye – he had fallen foul of Captain Aubrey over the affair of stolen food which Nagel and Pizzy had devised and had had it in for her (or Young, rather) until her identity had been revealed. Cicely, as Young, had taken to calling Killick "sir" so as to allay the brunt of the man's grumpiness and, when it was finally revealed she was "she" this had made Preserved Killick even more bad-tempered and cantankerous, though not directly to her but, in his manner, to Aubrey and Stephen. Today, however, his irritability was directed square at her.

""Sir?" Ye address me as "sir"? Yer hoyden, ye! Here, yer supper, _Miss_," he added, throwing his hand towards the food again before looking at her up and down, as if disapproving of her attire. "And these are fer ye. The captain says that the thread is in the second drawer." His waving arm arced towards the bureau. Cicely, standing opposite the screen, walked slowly around, pausing before the bureau before looking on the floor to the fabric which Killick had dropped. She stooped before it, then took it in her hand. When she realised what it was she felt a flash of shame, then anger.

"The captain wishes to avail ye of any embroidery skills ye may have," continued Killick, clearly savouring her outrage. "Yer hands can hand and reef, but can yer sew?"

"I can!" retorted Cicely hotly, her face flushing red. "Sew, embroider, repair, turn up, decorate…"

"Then ye should find no difficulty in mendin' the hole there, on the shoulder seam, and the tear by the pocket. Look, 'e don't want ye here," Killick pressed on, determined for Cicely not to reply before he had had his say. "Do yer wonder why 'e give yer to 'is Mrs the last time? Only one type of woman resides adecks – " he gestured towards the main deck where, Cicely knew, merriment and frivolity would certainly be brewing, if it were not already. "And unless ye' are a-earnin' and yearnin with the hands," Killick turned the corners of his lips into a sneer, "then ye' shouldn't be 'ere."

"He shames me, sir," Cicely replied when she could, though the fire in her stomach had somewhat been doused. "I've mizzened for the captain; I've fought…"

"Aye, miss, yer have. But not ye'. That wretch of a Young young'n. Ye' are a woman now, and a married one," he added, " and the captain sails to battle tomorrow and needs his best coat repairin', and though I could do it fer him, I've food ter do fer the men." Cicely looked at the jacket again. The gold of the captain's stripe on both shoulders gleamed in the lamplight and she noticed that the right shoulder's epaulette was a little loose. She could stitch it right, and do the other repairs too.

"Eat ye' food, miss," concluded Killick as he turned to leave. "Ye' wouldn't've had nowt, 'cept the captain said he hadn't the stomach for it and suggested you would want it." Looking at the now-cooler lobscouse Cicely now felt more inclined to eat it now. She smiled at Killick, who narrowed his eyes doubtfully.

"And ye' should make a start on the stitchin'" he added, before stalking off, closing the door heavily behind him. She would do it, damn his eyes, Cicely thought as she looked towards the wake of Killick. And what a job she would make of it too.

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Will had grown, about six inches taller, but he was still the same rascally-featured boy she knew. Cicely, having stomached the food that Killick had brought for her, had repaired the epaulette and shoulder seam on Aubrey's uniform before, quite by surprise, and after a lot of shuffling and banging about, Blakeney climbed out from behind a wall panel and she was reminded of height and impishness that she had noticed almost twelve hours before as she stood on the quayside.

Outside the noise adecks had filtered through to Aubrey's cabin. Music, singing and dancing had begun; rum and grog would have certainly made an appearance by now. The men would be carousing, singing, telling stories, and later, as Killick inelegantly pointed out, women would come aboard (she did not include herself in the definition) making them forget about the horrors that they would face on the morrow, a night before a day that many might not come back from – oh to be Robert Young again! A part of Cicely wanted to burst forth from Aubrey's cabin and join them, to sing, carouse and recline.

Cicely should have guessed it was Blakeney – it had been he who had shown her the secret and though she had used the method herself two days ago to gain access to the office of Captain Hardy aboard the Victory, it was still unnerving.

"Cicely!" His voice was far lower than it had been, when they had parted company and she had left the Surprise, but Blakeney's keenness and enthusiasm was still very much in evidence. He smoothed down his clothing hastily and hurried over, hugging Cicely as if his life depended on it.

"Will, you shouldn't be here – you should be in the gun room partaking in the company of Captain Aubrey!"

"All done! I am off duty and can spend it with whoever I please!" Cicely knew Will would not have been shirking either duty or social responsibility (the two facets he knew conducive to both the practicalities of seamanship and professionalism). Then, for the next ten or fifteen minutes the two friends, sitting beside one another on the planks of the cabin with their backs to the wall from which Blakeney had just emerged, so different in background, rank and position, the pair reinforced their friendship by empathising, sympathising, generally discussing the past.

Cicely did not reveal much of her ordeal to Blakeney, only that she had had to leave England due to unfortunate circumstances and, through an extraordinary journey was come, via the army, to see Stephen. In turn, Will told her of his promotion and how, quite rightly, he was proud of his advancement, his fears that he was doing his job correctly and his hopes for captaincy once his six years were served.

"Are you staying here, in the Captain's cabin? For Hardy is in the doctor's, you see, and you can't very well stay there."

"Yes," replied Cicely plainly and frowned a little as Will had picked up her repairwork, a little embarrassed at such feminine a task that she was undertaking before her (previous) superior. Blakeney looked at her handiwork absently as he continued. "Perhaps after tomorrow's battle Dr. Hardy will return to the Victory, and the doctor, our doctor…_your_ doctor…will be back."

He looked at Cicely solemnly, as if to convey proper meaning by in his glance rather than through his clumsy phrasing. "But of course, you don't know! Dr. Maturin and Dr. Hardy traded places! Dr. Hardy should be on the flagship, the Victory, and Dr. Maturin should be here." He put down the captain's tunic and Cicely felt her heart sink as Blakeney added, "I wonder when he will return."

So that was the plan then, Cicely surmised, her heart sinking. And that was the reason William Beatty was doctoring for the Victory's crew. Not Stephen. Her thoughts almost escaped her mouth but she clamped her lips closed with force until the urge waned. Jack had said that only he and Harris, and Cicely of course, knew about Stephen's passing. Cicely was determined that she was not going to be the one to enlighten William Blakeney and then emburden him with dark grief in one stroke.

"This is delightful embroidery, Cicely," he commented, handing her back Jack's clothing. "You seem to know as much about sewing as I do about the sea."

"I trust you know more in your discipline, Will," Cicely replied darkly. "And it is stitchwork, rather than embroidery. The latter is for genteel ladies to make pretty things in silks in their helio-rooms of an afternoon." She tried not to scoff; she knew Will Blakeney's mother was such a woman; he had had her handiwork, a prayer, above his hammock when last Cicely had seen it.

"This stitch here is a repair stitch for the shoulder seam; you see I've married it with the rest of the original line?" She held it out for Will to see and he nodded patiently. "I've another repair to do on the pocket, a darn. Some of the fabric has been torn through so with the thread I need to join this side – " she pointed, " – to this one without making a bunch of the rest of the fabric. Like a bridge out of the thread, a darn. Good darners won't show their edges, but I'm not such a good darner." Cicely moved the jacket around to the epaulette which was being half-held to the shoulder.

"If I use a neat blanket stitch, like the one which is already around this stripe, then it'll not fall off tomorrow." Will leaned in for a closer look.

"Perhaps I'll ask for blanket stitch on my arm if I'm ever in need of repair," Blakeney laughed. "I can ask Dr. Maturin to make the pattern! Won't that be a joyful day, when he returns," Will added, looking at Cicely, expecting his optimistic hope to be evident with her too. Cicely said nothing, but nodded, hoping that the boy would interpret her choked emotions favourably.

"Here, I have something for you." Out of his breast pocket Will pulled out a small book. "It's not much, intrinsically I mean," he added, describing its naivety. "Dr. Maturin gave it to me when I first took an interest in naturalism. He made it as a boy, a young man, in Ireland and in Spain." Without waiting for Cicely to reply Will held out the inch-thick journal, its covers dog-eared and spine barely holding the pages within together. "I have no use of it now, Cicely, I have my own notebook. I want you to have it, Cicely, and give it back to the doctor when you see him again."

"I can't – " she began, then sagged, replaying his conversation in her mind. He wasn't giving the book to her as a gift merely as an agent back to its original owner. She closed her hand around it and nodded. "Of course," Cicely corrected herself, hoping her expression was more convivial. "Stephen shall have it back."

After Will's outbreak of mirth following Cicely's use of Maturin's first name – "he has a first name, of course, but it seems odd you using it," Blakeney had chuckled – the discussion turned to the present, and the immediate future.

"He is to keep you here until time we depart, I expect," Will proffered his opinion sagely, "locked in here as you are." I am? thought Cicely. So I'm here for my safety, Captain Aubrey, she thought bitterly. Rather, as your inconvenience.

"Will, I am returning to the flagship," Cicely announced, taking in the stunned expression on her face. And, in order to qualify her statement she availed Will of her time aboard the Victory, and the possibility of an assassin aboard, of which (she lied) she had heard about through her time in the army. She had devised it as she had sewed, thinking of the possibilities and consequences. If she defeated this assassin, as she had planned, then perhaps Aubrey, and Harris too, would be proved wrong. It was a mere spark of a spark of hope, but it was hope nonetheless. "I have a plan," she summarised, her voice a little lighter than once it had been. "And I'm going to need your help. I need clothes, Will. I will depart the Surprise and go back to the Victory." Will turned to her, open mouthed in stunned awe.

"You're not serious, Cicely, you were joking about assassination, and all those other stupid things, weren't you? I mean, an assassination of the _Lord Admiral_?"

What stupid things do you mean, darling Will? Cicely cursed herself in anger as she flayed herself for her own asinine decisions. Stupid things like running away from home, like looking for Edward, her brother, like falling in love with Stephen, like _marrying_ him?

"I am sure of this, Will," she qualified, though even to herself Cicely sounded insincere.

"You need to be off the ship, we go to _battle_ tomorrow," Will emphasised urgently, his eyes shimmering, "a _big_ one! We have over two-dozen ships of the line." When Cicely said nothing, barring looking at him solemnly the ship's Lieutenant Blakeney sagged. "What sort of clothes would you like?"

Cicely's mind turned over what would be suitable. What _sort_ she would like would be something akin to the dress she had been given to wear for a short time by the French master spy Fouche.

"You know, what the mizzens wear…wide breeches…the shirt I have on will be fine, but these breeches are far too tight for climbing…stay, ties for the knees. Oh, and a cutlass. You've been in charge of the armoury this afternoon, haven't you?" Before Will had a chance to protest Cicely continued, "and I need you to bring Matthew Harris here, so I can speak to him." Just as Cicely expected Blakeney to protest again, he smiled.

"Can I ask you something in return? A promise?" Cicely nodded, after a pause.

"Promise that you'll depart the Victory once you get the assassin? Please?" he added piteously. Cicely sighed.

"I can't promise that," she replied, "there are so many things which could stop me from leaving." Especially with what I have in mind she added, but silently to herself. "But what I can promise is that I'll try; I won't stay if I can help it. That do you?" With a grin Will nodded and without another word he leapt to his feet, bounding towards the panel through which he had made his dramatic and surprising entrance. Bumping and banging through the space between the ceiling and the deck floor above, she heard his path.

She waited, wondering what Jack Aubrey would be thinking if he were in his office at the present time as she mulled over the future. She had an idea, one she needed to pursue, to end an uncertainty. Whatever, the weight of grief that was surely to follow, that had not swept like a torrent over her yet, had to be abated and she knew a challenge when she saw one and knew it would keep her mind occupied enough not to break down again until she was gone from the Surprise.

Half an hour later and the eight bells of the first watch, midnight, brought with it a door which, once the latch had been flicked open, was flung hastily against the bureau.

"…made such rare Flip…"

A full carousal of song soared through the door first and Cicely recognised it to be "Meg of Wapping" in fully unharmonised form. Behind the now far more professional-entering Blakeney, Matthew Harris stood, his round face beaming when he saw her.

"…pull away me hearties…"

"Matthew!" Cicely exclaimed and she grinned back, the thoughts over which she had been mulling these last thirty minutes assembling themselves as soldiers before their sergeant major in her mind. Blakeney strode in, his demeanour more hierarchical now and he held himself a little aloof in the presence of Harris, who closely followed him, closing the door behind him quickly.

On the pattern of the upturned screen Blakeney heaped a small pile of clothes which looked like they had been appropriated from the stores by their quality, naval issue and functional.

"Cicely," breathed Matthew, "I'm really so sorry to have to have been the one to tell you, he began and Cicely had the presence of mind to cut in quickly – after all, if he were about to talk about Stephen, her beloved, then Will Blakeney was still innocent to the fact.

" – that you're alive!" She hoped that her interruption was enough to prompt Harris not to elaborate further. "Look, Matthew, I need to ask you something, something important."

Blakeney stood near the bureau, glancing at the captain's papers upon, the roll book, pursers accounts and the like, trying to make it seem that he wasn't paying much attention.

"The Acheron, well, the Charlotte," she continued.

"The Acheron," corrected Matthew grimly. "Never ;'twas the Charlotte. Never got to Pompey, did she?"

"And you're sure about that? The ship did sink then, as you said?" Harris shot her a look, one which said – this is mockery, a jest, a jape.

"Yes, that's right," Blakeney chipped in. "On our way back from Yport, where we collected Harris here, we also repatriated Captain Pullings."

"Aye," agreed Harris, folding his arms in apparent triumph at her ludicrous talk.

"And the Captain mentioned to me that he was pleased to be availed of such a conundrum; the Acheron was to have been renamed the Charlotte," Blakeney continued solemnly. "Tom, Captain Pullings I mean, looked like a different man – "

"Who wouldn't 'ave, the shock 'e'd been through…first Captaincy, all that ill fortune." Cicely shot him a look; the mention of luck aboard a ship rankled with her.

"Thank you, Matthew," she continued, then fell unusually silent. Both men knew Cicely well enough to know what that meant.

"Whatever you mean to do Mrs Maturin, it won't be anything…you won't do anything stupid, will you?" he asked patiently.

"You mean like fighting Sergeant Major Harker, and all the other stupid things I've done?" She watched the cannon rake Harris's sides as what she had said sank in – he widened his eyes in both shock and awe.

"You never – "

"I survived," she laughed, and to herself added, if I can live after fighting with the giant of a man who fights dirty like that Irishman I can certainly allay the assassin. She had long decided that she would not be killing the Frenchman, for the information Harris had provided to her had been more insightful than either he or Blakeney could imagine.

"Good luck then," Harris wished her. Blakeney nodded officer-like and both of them quickly left. Just as she went to survey what Will Blakeney had brought for her the door was flung open again and the lieutenant threw his arms around her neck.

"Bye, Cicely. Don't get killed tomorrow."

"Nor you, either, Llieutenant Blakeney," she added and kissed him on the cheek.

Moments later Cicely was back to Jack's tunic and the frayed epaulette on the shoulder. Would there be an extra stripe there the next day, making him post-captain? Cicely doubted it – he had been dishonoured the day before for something indetermined. Darkness filled her mind again and she fought against it. Tomorrow. Just think of tomorrow she urged herself and fixed her mind on her former pair, James Fillings.

Why was James Fllings aboard Victory as a deckhand? He told me Pullings's ship had docked at Portsmouth? And why did he say he had had a pleasant and uneventful service on the Acheron? She had left out the detail about James and his offering to carry out her burdensome task in her stead when she had told Jack Aubrey about her life since he had last seen her, though not on purpose. Taking up the needle Cicely dug into the navy blue fabric.

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Through the gap between the boards that was the Captain's office and the mizzendeck and, having concealed himself prior to its occupation, an eavesdropper, literally so if he were to move where he shouldn't sought to remain silently hidden. Though he should be sleeping now, this being the second half of the middle watch, Lieutenant William Blakeney, who really should know, for his age and station, far better, had in fact had his ear pressed to the wood.

The conversation below seemed to be between Aubrey and himself, although it was being spoken aloud and as if someone else was there. He was speaking, Will recalled, as if he was speaking to Stephen Maturin, when they were post-dinner and relaxing in each others' company.

Will shuffled backwards a little – his growth over the last few months had made being pressed between the ceiling and floor and he screwed up his eyes as he cringed at the creaking that his body was making as someone above was walking directly above his back.

There was a pause, but presently, the conversation was taken up again. This dual-sided monologue was one which Blakeney was used from the Captain. Since Vlissingen Blakeney had listened in. Rather than being nefarious Blakeney found comfort in hearing Aubrey discuss issues, problems, personal matters with Dr. Maturin, later with Dr. Hardy and most recently with himself.

He should really have grown out of such things – he was nearly fifteen and far too large for such a space. But he had witnessed so much life of the ship, where decisions were being conceived; problems discussed and secrets shared. And besides, it was a comfort to him when he was feeling low.

By this means he had heard about Cicely's fate, that she was missing in England, and had worried about her in absentia; he had heard Stephen announce when he was to leave the ship and was to be replaced by Hardy and was understandably saddened to lose his guide through the wonders of the natural world; when the captain had discussed (with himself) the most suitable prize for the competition he had set when they were docked in Holland. When he was a captain, Blakeney thought, he would make sure he was slightly more careful with the information he divulged.

"...but she can't stay here…and she can't return to the flagship…"

Cicely again. Will had three sisters who lived in Bathclere with his parents, none of whom he knew for he had been at sea before the first had been born and he had long imagined what having a sibling would be like. Not dissimilar to how he felt about Mrs Maturin, he had concluded happily.

"…she must depart…leave Spain, dammit…go to England…go to her uncle – yes, that's the ticket…"

Cicely to leave? Of course she must. She could fight nonetheless, Blakeney knew that better than most – she had said as much that evening. But were he to be in the captain's position, knowing what he knew, having orders to follow.

"…she can put dear Stephen behind her…" Will Blakeney's ears pricked up sharply, "…I did tell you, my dead doctor, that you shouldn't have married her…but you did…and the better for both of you I do believe…

"…dear Stephen…I always said that spying would be the end of you…"

What…?

Had he really heard what he thought he had heard?

Will pressed his ear closer to the oak; it blazed under the pressure of his head as he challenged himself not to breathe for missing Jack Aubrey's words.

"…a toast…" A bang of presumably the rum bottle. Will imagined the captain with his feet on the desk, supping his spirit, perhaps even toasting the Queen Anne chair. An un-lieutenant-like tear welled in an eye, shortly followed by several more.


	26. Eve and Stephen

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'twas the eve of battle. All around the coast lights shimmered in the darkness. Juana Margall pondered the night ahead as she crowded with the other prostitutes, women of ill circumstance using the good fortune of the harboured fleet as a means of easy income. The sailors to whom they were crowding to please were eager too; one last revelry before, Juana knew, a day from which many may not return. Easy business, the women around her had been saying as they congregated on the wooden wharves – what man would not wish for one last revelry before facing death?

Would she be able to do it? Juana has asked herself the question repeatedly once she had conceived the notion to do it. So many women would be required by these merry-making sailors: all the better for business. Even so, in ill-fitting, bawdy clothing: tightly-fitting bodice with layers of skirt and face powdered and painted in the latest style, with the cool breeze on her exposed flesh Juana Margall had never done this before.

A chorus of "Spanish Ladies" meant that the sailors from the flagship had espied them. Laughs and titters arose from the cluster of trollops and they tittered to one another in Spanish as some of the sailors came over to them. Juana shivered as she wondered just what would happen.

"Senioritas!" One of the men stepped forward and addressed the group, picking up a daintily-finger-fringed hand from the nearest girl and kissed the back of it. "We would like all of you to join us on this auspicious night." Giggling erupted again and the harlots looked at one another, giggling. Juana joined in too so as not to look out of place.

"Vienen, senoras," tried another, with altogether much more accuracy and style, "a bordo de buque…" he gestured towards the ship from which they had ambled, "…fuera nos feliz…divertirse…"

"Divertirse!" repeated the girl whose hand the sailor held. "Fun…! Merry…!"

"Divertirse," agreed the throng of whores and, as one, the women moved with the men as a swarm of bees around honey, Juana with them. No going back now, just onwards and to her work.

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Cicely Maturin held the inflammatory epistle to the lamplight again, at its venomous, beguiling words that were made out on the paper. Were she not to have repaired Captain Aubrey's uniform jacket as he had baldly asked, had he not prescribed where the thread was to be found, in the bureau drawer she would be ignorant. Had Cicely not been trying to reach the delicate gold cotton for the epaulette which had fallen past the Captain's purser's papers which were also occupying the drawer her hand may not have rested on it.

Following the visit from Blakeney and Harris Cicely had been entirely alone. She had eaten the food Killick had left for her, drank the beer. She had dressed in the clothes brought by Blakeney, wide-legged, long breeches which for all the world could have been a long gathered skirt or French culottes, and had handed Will back the rifles uniform. Whilst sewing, driving her pain and grief from her mind she had formulated her action for the morrow, for she was determined to be gone and then had consigned the plan to the far reaches of her mind.

Pulling the writing chair that she had moved towards the oil lamp, for a better view of the stitching, Cicely had returned it, throwing the naval-issue sewing-threads onto the bureau's smooth, polished top and taking up Stephen's notebook that Will Blakeney had given to her.

Cathair Saidhbhin. This is the village on the Dingle peninsula in Ireland that Stephen had lived as a youth. He seemed to have spent several days in the Teermoyle mountains judging by the dates he had written next to his annotations. Prior to this there were copious notes and details of ornithological observations mainly around Lleida, where Cicely knew he had grown up as a young boy in Catalonia.

He had partaken of expeditions to the Pryrennes; to the coast, in both countries; he had made extraordinarily details: comparisons, contrasts, eggs, contents of droppings, location of guano, dissections of the birds, of the chicklets…the topics on which to investigate seemed endless, yet also purposeful.

Nothing within Stephen's simply-constructed but optimistically written work (he had written things in the margins to remind himself both imminently and in the future) as if he knew what he was to become, what he wanted to do with his life, even at seven…some in Latin, some in Gaelic, some in Catalonian, some in Castilian Spanish…some even in English. She had closed the book and pushed it aside tentatively, as if it were the riches of the Americas to her at that moment, too precious to be handled by a mere person.

Despite her own determination to blot out its association with her beloved and instead took it up again and tried to focus on the form and texture of the illustration to calm her mind Cicely could not sleep. She had closed the battered tome, leaving it to rest on the bureau next to the muster records and waiting for the soporific effects of Jack's beer (for Killick had explained the captain had gone without on her behalf that evening) to take effect.

Had she not decided to tidy away the threads with which she had mended Jack's tunic back to the drawer where they had originally come perhaps Cicely's grief would not have been released, like a twelve-pounder to the stomach. Cicely may even have gone to the cot, rested to face the morning, to face her pain then, to cope with her loss. She could have soothed herself with the life she had fancied for them both, which she was well practiced in on her journey from Shrewsbury to Cadiz, when Stephen had his Royal Society commission and therefore could pursue his naturalistic career professionally.

She could have left the Surprise unaware of what she was about to discover. Ignorance was not to be and the wrong of her situation, the agony, the pain came to the fore lustily and ferociously as she comprehended the paper she held.

Cicely would not ordinarily have taken up the letter, nor less read it – she had left alone Stephen's belongings knowing that, far from comforting her, they would have made the situation far less bearable – and she had been about to put it back when two words, a name, on the reverse of the outer paper had made her start.

As she'd held it, imagining fantastically distrustful things projecting from the word, gone was the feeling of propriety in an instant: her hazy denial of Stephen's death which had kept her from anguish so far had developed swiftly into hot, heady anger. Raw anger, anger of the fact that she had been there, to have to be told of her husband's demise; anger that she had believed Fouche; anger that she had left the Surprise at all.

A portion of anger that Stephen should have continued with his espionage work, that he required the money for something or other; anger at her own ineptitude that, had she managed to get the information he needed before he had left for his mission, Stephen might not have gone, and would now not be dead.

Cicely cried, emotion racking at her shoulders, her chest, her lungs as she sat hunched over the bureau, looking at Stephen's notebook which represented optimistic hope for the future of a boy and young man and holding the letter she had just discovered. Tears flowed, mucus invaded her mouth and dripped from her chin, her eyes stung. The shock of Jack's news, of Stephen's death, had finally transubstantiated into actuality.

On first reading, having confirmed both the recipient at the top and the sender at the bottom, Cicely had realised she had got to the end of the missive without taking in much of the content or meaning and she'd re-read it, savouring each bitter word.

" – if we could only be once more thy Diana and my Stephen…I would not vacillate…I'd willingly have you back, my dearest…risking fate's wrath…it matters not to me that you are wed … I will change…I may yet be a comfort… the marriage is disputed, so I hear …console and guide…endeavour to love thee better…"

Cicely now sat back in the velvet-covered chair, crumpling the letter into her lap and leaned back allowing the slats to take her weight. The letter looked worn, like it had been opened up on several occasions. Clearly it had been read, and re-read as she had done.

Oh the impertinence! Cicely dashed at her thigh with her hand. How dare she! This woman, this Diana Villiers! She had had the audacity …the brashness…the brazenness…to…to…try to steal her husband…! Cicely had come across her name only once, which had been a correspondence which Fouche had revealed to her, that Stephen had told her of their marriage… her mind then filled in the gaps with hideous consequences…

Her eyes pricking with tears as she looked at Stephen's sparse belongings which Jack had clearly thought important enough to preserve. The address on the top of the letter had an address in an upmarket area of Paris. How much had it been the case that he'd had rid of her in England, to Sophie Aubrey? A small measure of anger that Cicely had reserved for Captain Jack Aubrey, who may have deliberately kept the letter from her, rose to the surface like a sprat momentarily.

Cicely got to her feet, the letter held limply in her hand and began to pace arbitrarily around the cabin. Her heart beat heavily in her chest as above the boots of the men entertaining one another with dancing as she reassessed and reinterpreted the flashes of the past appearing in her mind in light of this new information. After a few minutes Cicely stopped walking and hung her head a little. It ached from the effort of thinking. She thought too much, Stephen said. Stephen used to say…

She returned to the bureau's chair and collapsed into it, glancing at the now-abandoned letter next to Stephen's journal, then looking at both of them in one eye-view momentarily. Oh what did it matter now? He was with God now. Neither one of them could be with him.

Cicely threw her head back and looked at the ceiling, the mizzen-deck's floor before her eye caught the still-horizontal screen. She sat up and looked at it, remembering standing behind the beautiful white panels, hand decorated with periwinkles. It was as beautiful as she felt that day, she recalled, even though she had thought then that she had been going to a marriage of convenience. Cicely remembered the blue dress that Jack had given to her, one intended for his wife. After eighteen months in boy's clothing it had been a beautiful sight to behold and had felt delicate and rich to her touch.

Now, looking towards Stephen's possessions, a small chest, his scientific instruments, his violoncello Cicely saw it again in her mind's eye. She saw herself as she was, in her finery about to become Mrs Maturin, how she a small part of her had gloried in its beauty despite the rest of her despising the life and society it represented…how it had hung in Stephen's cabin for, after everything, her aloof nature, avoidance and ignoble behaviour, he had kept it.

There were no more tears left to cry, no more emotion to wring from her frame. Bending her head to the bureau's dark patina, the smoothness of the varnish coming closer to her eye as she then rested down on it, Cicely closed her eyes.

Time passed. Flashes of the past, future, present appeared randomly in her mind as she sought to assemble some sense from it. How much time Cicely did not know but she was aware of the watch-bells being rung and then the door being opened.

"I see you've eaten your supper." Jack Aubrey peered around the door and looked at Cicely, resting heavily, though not asleep and she knew she must have looked in a dreadful state because he added, "and the beer – oh my word, what _has_ happened to you?"

Cicely raised her head and looked at him, rubbing her stinging eyes. She had every right to cry, she knew, to grieve, to hurt. But to know that he was hurting too – Aubrey had known Stephen far longer than she ever had. Imagine the companionship that had gone before…she was not the only one grieving heartily that evening – Jack's slightly arrhythmic patter and whiff of strong liquor helping to confirm her suspicions.

"Here. I always find a drop of rum helps to make things seem better." Proof positive of the fact Jack Aubrey now offered to Cicely and, despite her moral she glanced at the dark, thick-glassed walls which housed the spirit before taking it from him, swigging deeply. The fire in her throat made her cough violently and she held the bottle back towards Aubrey but the warmth of the rum was now caressing her insides, beguiling her, soothing her as well she knew it would.

"Does that feel better?"

"Much better," Cicely replied, and tried a smile, which failed dismally.

Jack looked at her as he closed the door behind him. Plain as she was, and headstrong far more than was good for her Jack had been astonished at Cicely Maturin's determination to return to her husband, despite the adversaries, despite the setbacks, all she had done might daunt many men, let alone a female.

He had never felt entirely comfortable conversing with Cicely. She challenged, she fought; she was wilful and obstinate. Heeding little authority, she was not like any female he had met who acted as a man in the world, as if it were her right to do so and as if asking permission, as was her feminine rank, was her mere formality. Had she been a withering petticoat he could have dealt with her far more easily. But her spirit was astounding: Cicely demanded to be herself, even if herself wasn't what was expected of a woman. In short, she was affable and so, Jack had to admit, he liked her and he could see how Stephen Maturin, in his uncommon fashion, would admire and love her.

"He loved you, Cicely," Jack proclaimed in his gruff tone as he made his way to the other chair, next to the upturned screen. She looked at him, and widened her mouth – it could have been a smile but Jack wasn't quite sure.

"I loved him," she replied stiffly. Then, without warning she felt her lip quiver and she looked at her bare feet. "I loved him, oh I did," she sighed. "My Stephen, my only love…" Cicely's voice trailed off.

"And he loved you," Jack repeated, a little helplessly. He too missed his friend; when he had heard the news, brought by Harris himself, it felt as if Higgins himself had butchered a limb from his body. The pain, though weeks in the passing, was being felt afresh through the grief of his poor widow.

"Please, Jack," Cicely looked up, speaking softly, "what was he like? Really like?" She swallowed so the words did not get mangled by her choking on them. "It, it…it seems such a long time since I saw him, so many months…please remind me…"

"He was," Jack began and to himself continued – Stephen. In the time that he knew him several adjectives could be employed: anachronistic, singular, free-thinking, learned, musical, kind, empathic, prudent, assiduous, jocular…

"What about when you first met?" Cicely prompted. How little she knew about him, his life, his background; his work as a spy…only that she loved all of that, all of him, every facet. Cicely had always assumed she would be able to talk to Stephen later in their lives together about these topics. One should never assume anything, said the voice of her governess all those years ago, now reiterated by her mind mockingly.

"I needed a physician when I was in Port Mahon, Minorca, five years ago and, as a surgeon he was more than qualified. He went away and overnight taught himself what he needed to know about seafaring medicine, maladies and treatments." Jack looked to the ceiling as if recalling in his mind's eye his reminiscence."

"I was delighted to see that he made the men feel comfortable; the physician on my previous ship grated them so – "at this Jack broke off and Thomas Hardy's face flashed momentarily before his mind's eye. "When I took up my first captaincy on the "Sophie" I needed someone not only to help unite my disparate crew but also as a companion. He cared that his cello was brought aboard first – "Jack snorted light-heartedly, "and, because I play a little I was delighted to be able to relax. Do you play, Cicely?"

She shook her head. Nothing. Edward had been the musical one – he sang, played, danced. The talent that came her way had been ones involving pencils and paint. Sewing, but then all girls were taught embroidery, but sketching and drawing had been passion.

"And of course," Jack continued, "his zeal for all things of nature intrigued me, though I understand little. The unusual, singular anomalies – these held his interest the greatest. Stephen was always loved untangling intricate curiosities.

"_Am I just a curiosity then?_" Her ferocious question made Jack start and he looked at the equally shocked expression on Cicely's face. She wasn't looking at him – her question hadn't been directed at Jack. Then he noticed the letter which lay on the bureau guiltily spilling its gizzards to the open air. She looked at Jack and Aubrey realised Cicely had seen him looking at Diana's letter.

"Stephen never received it," he qualified steadily. "He had departed the ship in Genoa almost a month before it arrived. I kept it safe," he added, then unusually, justified its now-read state, "when I knew Stephen had departed this world I thought it only fitting to reply to Miss Villiers and inform her of the dreadful news."

An awkward silence followed, by an even more awkward question.

"What is she like?" Cicely's eyes shimmered earnestly, in the way Will Blakeney's often did, with his fervour to do his best for the service. Jack usually had to stop himself short of explaining to the former that he didn't have to do his best for the service _all _at the same time; to the former he now debated silently to himself, what good would it be to tell her?

But he knew Cicely, well enough that she preferred bald truth to fluffy lies.

"I know Diana, you see," Jack continued, deliberately avoiding Cicely's direct question. "She is Sophie's cousin' her mother's sister's daughter…" Jack continued to give a detailed biography of the woman, in the manner of reading a list or paragraph, and Cicely listened, her ears catching and hanging onto that of her appearance and personality.

A part of her had hoped, when she had second-read the letter, that this Diana Villiers would be a common whore, but Stephen was no common sailor. And, as Jack told her about her life, growing up with Sophie and living with Sophie and her mother, Mrs Williams, in her young adulthood, she doubted for a moment the woman was something other than captivating.

Then, as Jack indelicately described a time when he, Stephen, Sophie and Diana had dined at Litten Hall, clearly recounting it with humour, Cicely augured their destiny, hers and Stephen's. Perhaps they were never meant to be together: for her to be at sea, it seemed, Cicely would have to keep up her disguise as a boy, for him, constraining him from the natural world would be an intolerable cruelty.

She sighed. If only she had her notes that she had the notes that she had gleaned from Robert Darwin's "Zoonomia", his unique edition written by Erasmus Darwin himself and which she had enclosed in her letter to Sophie Aubrey. Apart from the notebook, which Blakeney had casually allowed her to have, she had little of him now, neither with regard to possession or memory.

Did it even matter anyway? What use would having these now serve other than reminding her of a time she would rather consign to the far reaches of her mind. Cicely looked at Jack as her thoughts were brought hastily to the present – he had stopped talking and was swigging on the rum bottle.

"Is she beautiful?"

Jack looked at Cicely. He didn't say it but realised his silence confirmed her fear. It was true that Diana was captivating, beautiful indeed. But next to Cicely's determination, her resilience, even with everything against her and a mere thread of hope, she had done his late friend more of an honour than Stephen could ever have wished for. Besides, what did it matter now?

"I have Stephen's belongings," Aubrey gestured towards the items Cicely had already noticed, his leather-bound journals over which she had long pored, his magnifiers, holders for insects and cages. For his scornfulness of Stephen's work Aubrey seemed to have given over precious room on the ship for these. Jack got to his feet and made his way to his cot-hammock.

"I have something for you," he continued as he reached behind it, fumbling a little, before pulling out a garment. In actuality now, as Cicely blinked away the first few of a new batch of tears, her wedding dress, the beautiful blue gown, was there in front of her. Cicely made to say something but the words stuck like fish bones in her throat.

He _had _loved her; Cicely knew, not only in her head but in her heart. Such little space that there was on a ship that even Jack had to be selective of the possessions he kept and yet Stephen had clearly felt such for the garment that, ahead of other things of a naturalistic bent she guessed, scanning his collection of belongings again and noticing that there were far fewer sample books than she recalled.

From Jack's outstretched hand Cicely took it, feeling the delicate silk kiss her skin. It had never fitted properly, Cicely remembered; it was too long and the back seam finished far further down at the waist than was necessary, causing more restriction than otherwise a formal dress would. Perhaps, she thought wryly, she could use her sewing skills to alter it, and in Stephen's wake, make it fit after all.

Jack was now kneeling at the 'cello, touching the wooden case which projected the delicate instrument and recalling his own memories, no doubt. Cicely touched the bodice again and thought the time, not so long ago, when she had tried to eschew her love, to hide from her husband and spend time with the crew. She had known her own feelings for him but had thought he _could_…he _would _never feel the same. She had tried to make it easy on herself then and, as she did so, had hurt him. Now she longed for those days, those peaceful days sailing across the pacific where she could transcribe his work, spend time in his company. Live with him.

"Are you musical, Cicely?" Jack looked up from the 'cello case which was now open and Aubrey held aloft the large instrument, stroking his hand over its strings. She lowered the dress and looked at him.

"No, not especially." Jack plucked at the strings experimentally, picking out an aria that Cicely recognised, then a waltz. He plucked then a simple harmony which he referred to as "Merrily turns the Capstan Round," but Cicely knew as something different.

The song was a simple one and it reminded her of the time she had hidden from her governess, who knew she must have been somewhere in the forest, and she had found Freddie Bonner , her neighbour's son with whom she often played, and gone with him, to where some gypsies were living. They had taught Cicely and Freddie that song amongst others and had given them some food which they had been cooking over a rough twig fire. Her father would have been horrified if he had found out some of the things that Cicely had done; she was a rebellious baggage as he had so often called her, usually to her face and that her only use to him was an advantageous wedding.

"…loudly sings cuckoo…" she found herself singing lightly as she fought to keep her father out of her mind. Jack stopped abruptly and looked at her.

"Different words to the ones as I know," he replied, "but then, many songs are."

Many men are, thought Cicely. Different things to different people. She looked back to Jack but he had replaced the 'cello back into its case. He stood up, hands on hips."

"Please rest, Cicely," he concluded, pacing towards her in the direction of the door. "You have the run of my cabin for as long as you wish it."

"But tomorrow – " Cicely began then fell silent as Jack continued.

" – we will discuss on the morrow." Cicely said nothing; she felt exhausted and now, at last, wished for rest. She could not think of the future now, and felt done with the past.

"Before I go," Jack's gait took a swerve back to the bureau. From the corner where Stephen's belongings were she saw Jack stoop to the drawer in which the sewing-thread was kept, and where she had found Diana Villiers' letter. "You sent them to Sophie; she sent them to me, along with your letter. I was bald worried for you, Cicely, when I knew you had gone," he added as Cicely approached and took the familiar looking, folded, ragged-edged pages. They were the notes from "Zoonomia."

"If only you'd looked a little harder!" Aubrey guffawed, throwing his head back in mirth before grinning at Cicely. He had exceeded his order and not handed them to McGregor as expected, only the letter from Cicely, and Sophie's own letter, as the man had expected. If the captain didn't know that ship had been there in the night it would not worry him, Jack had reasoned.

"Then you might not have worried yourself over Diana's pitiable sentiment." Cicely felt a knot of guilt tighten in her stomach. She had doubted Stephen, even in his death, _even_ though the letter had been in Miss Villiers' hand, and Cicely knew, for the rest of her life, she would never be rid of that guilt of her shortcoming.

"Thank you," she said gracefully as she took her notes. "And thank you too, Jack, for all your kindness. Oh," she added, turning to the tunic that Jack had sent to her for repair, " – I won't say perfect, but better than when you sent it to me."

"I…?" questioned Jack, eyebrows raised, protesting innocence. "Why, thank you, Cicely. It is truly fine work." He held it aloft and made a small step forward, thought better of it and then nodded to Cicely. "Sleep well."

As the door clicked behind him, Cicely's eyes turned from the door to the bureau top and she flopped down in the chair again. Putting her notes on top of Diana's letter she considered both the work from Zoonomia and, by contrast, Stephen's youthful work. How hollow her endeavours seemed now; how ultimately useless.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she wept for the struggle still ahead of her, for relief of actually managing to get back onto the Surprise in the first place, and for herself, and her husband, her beloved Stephen, gone from her forever…

A fancy flew into her head that, if she managed to get back to the Victory, as she intended, and succeeded to stop Nelson's assassin, whose identity she believed she had now determined, would God have mercy on her and return him to her?

She entertained her false hope, Cicely knew, and turning away from the source of it she got to her feet. Crossing to Jack's cot-hammock she clambered into it and closed her eyes. As the dawn began to consider rising on such a fateful day that was to come, Cicely's last thoughts were of her Stephen.

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	27. The Arms of Victory

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The eighth bell of the first watch jerked Cicely from a dreamless slumber. She blinked her eyes heavily and, having ascertained that she was where she had expected to be swung her legs over the side of Captain Aubrey's cot-hammock. Trying to land lightly, and failing a little, her feet caused the planks to creak and she reached for the cot's fabric to steady herself.

Four in the morning, land time. If the ships were indeed to fly free of the wharf that day, the Surprise included, then they would surely leave soon. No vigorous calls from the bo'sun; no running of seamen on the decks above. Cicely wondered where Jack might be at the present time – if she were to depart to the Victory she would have to do it now and with discretion. How she would then re-board the flagship was another matter entirely and she would have to think quickly.

Stealing her way to the door, Cicely caught sight of the bureau to the right. Upon it, where she had left it, was Stephen's decrepit notebook, the one he had compiled over several years as a child and, folded inside the notes she had hastily written at "The Mount", Dr. Darwin's house, with whom she had resided as a guest of Sophie Aubrey and from where she had made her shameful flight. The book, in its simplicity, its crudeness, to her it beauty defined. She could have clung to Blakeney for eternity the emotion it had caused in her when he had given it to her.

Her heart, still slumbering in her chest moments ago, now leapt as if almost out of Cicely's chest as she placed her hand over it. It was her last, her only link now to her long-gone husband and she fought the tears which had replenished in her ducts during her sleep. Cicely thought back to the moment William Blakeney had given it to her as she pulled it towards her chest. He didn't even know that his friend…confidante…mentor had gone. Will had been so earnest, so –

No. She looked at the door before her, which led into Aubrey's office, and thence to the gun room. Cicely forced her mind onto what her intentions were to be that day as she contemplated how she would pass through it – Jack had surely locked it when he had left her the night before. She looked up. Could she make it through the gap between the ceiling and the deck, as Blakeney had done?

Putting her hand onto the door handle and giving it one last vain twist Cicely was astonished to find that it twisted under her grip and she stepped forward awkwardly, almost falling onto the floor before her. Holding onto the door handle she managed to gain her feet again and caught her breath as Stephen's book scuttled across the floor.

Cicely glanced up, realising Jack Aubrey was asleep over his desk, his head bent, resting on his arms. Next to him was the now-empty rum jar and, slung over the back of his chair was his tunic that Cicely had grudgingly mended for him.

She looked between Jack and the notebook then, realising the Captain had not stirred for her clumsiness. A couple of paces brought her right to it, she scooped up the notebook and, turning swiftly Cicely was in the process of stowing it into her clothing when Aubrey's voice rang out.

"Madam, please hold there." Cicely turned, failing to disguise her guilt. Jack was sitting upright, staring at her, wiping his eyes with the cuffs of his shirt.

"Captain Aubrey, I – " she began, but he held up a hand. Unusually, Cicely fell silent. So, he was to turn her off the ship, she was to be returned to England. She had, again, shamed him with her presence. Cicely's mind worked rapidly as she scrabbled for options for self-survival.

She could beg charity on the state, although that was unlikely to work because of her father's influence…were she to fall into her father's hands again, or, God forbid, those of Wigg, she could fight to escape and…what…? Serve…? Navvy…? Perhaps she could persuade someone to loan her money to get her to Sarawak, to her mother's brother, who had invited her, and Edward, to live with them, a letter also stowed inside her clothing…maybe earn it in some way –

Cicely's thoughts were interrupted when she realised Aubrey was gesturing to a letter which, presumably the one she had noticed next to the rum jar a few moments ago and was now open on the desk before her.

"My orders," Jack continued, "expired. Look at the date on the top." Cicely peered forward. Five months ago. She would have been navvying then. She scanned across it, noting the premise – that she was to be turned over to the authorities if she were to be found aboard a naval ship – signed by a Henry Gordon.

"Your orders," Cicely echoed, her heart sinking and she looked at Jack trying not to let tears brim over her eyelids. "Perhaps, before you give me to the Marines, perhaps I could remind you of the letter you gave me yesterday, about a possibility to go to the South Seas and find my uncle – " she looked down. "Or if I am to return to England, perhaps I might – "

Cicely jumped as Jack banged heavily on the desk in front of her and she looked at him in shock. Instead of the fury she imagined him displaying Jack let out a "Ha!".

"No, Mrs Maturin, not to England, or Sarawak, or any place on land!" Jack folded his arms in triumph as Cicely continued to stare at him in shock. "My dear girl, if you were not to board the flagship, who else will preserve the liberty of our Lord Admiral? These orders have since been superseded." Jack's mind thought back to his conversation two nights before with Donald McGregor – how he loathed the, who seemed to take cold satisfaction in Aubrey's demarcation.

"Yes," he continued, when Cicely persisted in saying nothing and his tone softened. "You rested well, I trust, given the shock?" Cicely nodded a little and she watched Jack push back his chair, as he had done the day before, and get to his feet. "Because you were aboard my ship and – " he held up his hand to stop her from interrupting now, " – because I interceded by sending you to my home, to Sophie." Cicely hung her head. Had she just not ran…hadn't Fouche told her, and Major Blunt too, that her impetuosity had consequences on others?

"I am in ignominy, which is the reason why, I believe, I am to flank the flagship but not engage in the battle." Cicely looked up, taking in his thorough misery at the prospect. Ships, she recalled him saying over dinner once to Stephen, were safe in the harbour, but that's not what ships were built for.

"I have requested an appointment with Captain Hardy of the flagship and he has yet made no reply. I intended to divulge your information to him however, as we are to sail soon. It is unseemly for a captain to be piped aboard another ship without invitation especially as it is likely he would ask me the source. He wouldn't listen to the tale even if I were to bear it with all the gravity it deserves. Even Admiral Collingwood wll not acknowledge," he added, his disappointment rankling.

"No," Jack concluded, hands on his hips as he paced behind his desk, "if you are still for the game, Cicely, then you should, for the love of the Lord. No captain can do very wrong if he places his ship alongside that of the enemy."

"Those are fine words, Captain," nodded Cicely.

"Indeed they are, were that they were mine. No, the Lord Admiral has his way with the language, efficient but beautifully apt." Cicely felt herself agreeing privately – he had saved her from a watery grave two evenings' ago with his unique prose. It was time to repay the favour. Jack's mind was on the dinner where Nelson had said this, before McGregor had called him out. He would be near the enemy too – how could he not wish to place "Surprise" next to them, and ball them, too?

"What is the punishment for desertion, Jack?" Cicely asked next. In the interceding moments between her leaving his cabin to now no seed of a plan had even begun to germ.

"The "Articles of War, 1749" clearly state that, in the event of cowardice, for which desertion is included, the offender is subject to death." Oh, thought Cicely, just death, then. "Which will never do," Jack continued, and, from under the original, superseded orders that she had read about herself he pulled a folded, sealed letter.

"I have written to Captain Hardy explaining that, due to severe insobriety, which caused you to bear this morning to myself in this very room, in your folly you disembarked the flagship in search of merriment. You met with some of my men who, recognising you to be a Naval hand but not being able to ascertain your ship, brought you aboard the Surprise in order to reduce the embarrassment to the service." He picked up the letter and held it towards Cicely and, despite herself, she broke into a smile.

"They should commute it down to a flogging," Jack added, "which shouldn't, I would have thought, be carried out presently due to our imminent departure." That was it. Her path was clear. Now to confront James Fillings…

"Your tunic is mended sufficiently well for you to wear now, Jack?" Cicely changed the subject and glanced at the garment on the back of his chair. "I do hope my amateurish attempt will ennoble you enough for your task. Killick insisted I would make a better seamstress." Jack coughed uncomfortably.

"Cicely, I would trust Preserved Killick with my life you understand, however I would not trust him to dress up a fowl or beast lest the stuffing was to fall out all over the table. Had I not known it, I would have said it was come direct from the Admiralty itself. I will wear it with pride this day. Now," he added quickly, for which Cicely was grateful – how she hated praise, especially from a man who she owed more to than any other, and he strode towards the office door, opening it and bellowing for, "Lieutenant Blakeney, if you please, and First Lieutenant Mowett."

Both men appeared promptly, perhaps a little too promptly as if the wait for the off had caused both lieutenants to stand prepared. Mr Mowett beamed his usual, ready smile as he appeared at the door. Will Blakeney was equally as keen, but his face broke into a broad grin when he espied

"Mr. Blakeney, would you please depart the ship with haste and make for the flagship." Cicely paused for a moment, then proffered Jack's letter to Captain Hardy. Blakeney, still grinning, hurried over to her, and took it keenly before looking over his shoulder to his captain.

"You are not sending Mrs Maturin back home," he enquired.

"And why would you think _that_, Mr Blakeney?" Jack intoned, frowning.

"No reason, sir," Will replied quickly, a little tinge of pink to his cheek."

"No," agreed Jack doubtfully. "And I shall not ask how Robert Young acquired his present attire."

"No sir," replied Blakeney.

"No, after the battle, should God be willing that we all come through safely, Mrs Maturin will return to the Surprise as _herself _– " Jack shot the lifeline of hope in Cicely's direction including the terms under which it was offered, "and, as _herself,_ we will discuss the matter further." He strode towards Cicely and took hold of her upper arms firmly, looking into her eyes as Edward might have done had she been about to something foolish and highly dangerous. "May God be with us, Cicely," he added, his voice low, almost as a whisper, "for our mutual friend."

Cicely let her head fall heavily into a nod. It was clear what Jack was trying to say. She was acting not only for the Service, but also and, more importantly, in Stephen's memory. The embrace was short and Jack swiftly released her arms. Jack turned to his lieutenants and detailed the plan.

"We are to stow anchor, Mr. Mowett. All women are to be removed from the ship."

"All women without exception?" asked William Mowett who, despite being an intelligent man had become quite lost in the intrigue. Jack gestured to the letter h had written for Captain Hardy which was still in Blakeney's hand.

"Mr. Blakeney, if you could hand Mr. Mowett that – " he ignored the disappointment on Will Blakeney's face. He guessed the lieutenant had wished to spend a few more moments in Cicely's company. "Escort Robert Young to HMS Victory and give that letter to Captain Hardy directly. Captain Howard will accompany you, for the look of the thing." He glanced at Mowett, "Only Captain Hardy, mind," Jack added pointedly. "We want no-one else to know about this, or guess something is afoot. It is enough that we all know your identity here, and Harris, of course, but we – " Jack stopped as he noticed the look that passed between his lieutenants.

"I rather think the crew as knew you Mrs Maturin wish to depart," said Mowett at length. Aubrey's face darkened but then his features softened as he turned to Cicely.

"Robert Young," he began. "Go to your duty."

"Aye aye, sir." Cicely, for the second time in three days saluted a short-term commander. She made to go before turning and, to Aubrey's utter astonishment gave him a very unsailor-like, but very Cicely-like hug.

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As Cicely stepped out of the cabin she would have been the last person to guess that the crew, assembled as if to sail out, would be, as one, staring towards the Captain's cabin. Whatever Harris had told them, Cicely concluded as Blakeney closed the door behind Jack, she didn't know, but they had their eyes fixed on her.

Those whom she knew: Bonden; Nagel; Pizzy (who had grown also into a far older child); Mr. Lamb; Boyle and Williamson; Plaice; Davies, either nodded towards her or grinned as she passed them, under apparent arrest from the Marine Captain. Even those who did not know her, those Portuguese with whom she had vied for inspection at the wharf the day before, the Spanish and even those English new to her followed her with their eyes, knowing that something significant was going on.

"All right, Young," said Captain Howard sternly – even though she had shared many a jest and conversation about hunting he too was playing along – and he harried her forward as he might a prisoner, for that was what she was pretending to be. As she stepped onto the wharf-plank she glanced over her shoulder and, from the group a cheer erupted, which, moments later, Lieutenant Blakeney was attempting to douse, with mixed success. It took Aubrey to issue forth commands to make ready for the choruses of "Hurrahs" to die away but Cicely would not forget the farewell for a long time.

The same sentiment could not be said for the crew of the flagship as she was pushed aboard by Howard, closely followed by Mowett. The hands who were fixing the lines to the rings eyed her contemptuously – they knew a salt in the custody of a marine captain would have been guilty of something foul. A couple may even have recognised her as she trooped, head low, over the parapet and onto the deck. Howard spoke a few words to the Victory's Captain of the Royal Marines who immediately dispatched another to fetch Captain Hardy.

Cicely felt her feet, in simple canvas shoes (a luxury for a common hand – most ordinary seamen were bare-footed) and looked at them. Her fate would be sealed soon by the Captain and her disgrace known to all moments after. Not that it bothered Cicely – as Jack had said, the punishment was likely to be carried out after the Victory sailed – the flagship would be first out of the harbour this morning and, like the Surprise, was making appropriate provision to sail.

It didn't take long for Captain Hardy to appear. On the main deck, before the crew who were present, with his lieutenants flanking, he received the letter officially from First Lieutenant Mowett, scanned it, scanned her, and then looked at the letter again, frowning a little when he read Jack's signature at the bottom.

"So, you were found inebriate last night, eh?" Captain Hardy looked her up and down. Cicely tried to play ignorant – an ordinary seaman, a mizzenlad like her, would hardly know what an inebriate was. "Drunk!" shouted Mowett, with effect. "You were drunk, lad, weren't yer?" Cicely nodded, head still bowed although the fact that most of the crew who should have otherwise been making ready to sail had surrounded the protagonists of this public dressing-down were obvious.

"I thank you gentlemen for your returning one of my crew so efficaciously," Captain Hardy said smoothly to Howard and Mowett. "Please give my regards to Captain Aubrey; he – " Hardy stopped abruptly, before continuing, " – thank your Captain," he finished awkwardly, but bowed his head as if his words were far more eloquent. Out of the corner of her eye Cicely saw both men's boots tramp towards the Victory's wharf-plank and disappear. Just as she turned her head back so she was staring at the planks Cicely noticed Bill Gibbons staring at her and just behind him Reuben Jelfs.

"So, you were the man my marines were firing at the other evening?" Cicely raised her head, taking care not to look the captain in the eye. She said nothing. If Robert Young – no! She was Stephen Maturin here! If Stephen Maturin was supposed to have been so drunk she was carousing around, rather than deserting, then he would not have known it.

"Speak, man!" First Lieutenant Quilliam burst forth, telling the exasperation that the Captain was too dignified to express. "Were you the deserter?"

"Er, if you please sir," Cicely managed, keeping her head low, "I…I remember bullets, sir. Not much else though, sir. I'm very sorry, sir," she added, hoping that speaking her sorrow for the fictional wretched event would be enough.

"And just what is your name?" Quilliam stood over her a little as she kept her head bent in supplication.

"Stephen, sir," she replied, "Stephen – "

" – Maturin!" Cicely jerked her head to her right, before lowering it quickly. Henry Jellicoe, her lieutenant, had accurately asserted her identity. She nodded glumly.

"Jellicoe?" Quilliam narrowed his eyes.

"It is my misfortune, sir, that this is one of my mizzenlads." Henry Jellicoe's voice was cold, ice like his fair hair and sharp as his long nose.

"Stephen Maturin." Captain Hardy mulled Cicely's name momentarily before continuing to commute punishment. "Fifty lashes, to be carried out post-battle." If I survive it, thought Cicely, remembering the time previously that she had been sentenced to a lashing, from Aubrey for fighting ferociously with Nagel.

"You will be imprisoned in the hold for the duration of the battle." Cicely felt herself start, looking up momentarily to the captain, before remembering her place. They meant to be sure then. "You are not to be trusted," Captain Hardy continued, probably for the benefit of his lieutenants. "Therefore you are not to be trusted on your station at the present time." Captain Hardy turned to the lieutenant. "This sorry mess is brought to your door Jellicoe," he added. Clearly a middie had responsibilities and those hands bringing dishonour to the ship reflected the shame onto their superior. Henry Jellicoe knew this full well. "Take that man away and chain him well."

"Aye aye, sir," said Jellicoe, swallowing down his humiliation and transforming it into loathing towards Cicely.

From the hatch to the fore of the ship Juana Margill pressed her back towards the deck-shoulders trying to cover herself decently with her ill-fitting clothes and listening to every word.

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	28. Nelson's Columns

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Dawn was fighting for life. On the fo'c'sle the master spy, William Wickham, laid the lines, as was his duty, along with the other dozen topmen. Light was putting up a good fight, vanquishing darkness inch by inch, minute by minute. But daylight wasn't the outright victor. Wickham, his face red from exertion glanced towards the harbour as sweat traced clean-skin marks through the grime on his face as the mist swirled in the Spanish harbour boding ill weather.

The blasted calling to arms, with the marines beating to quarters! Were the bells, the third of the morning watch having just sounded, indicating half past five, not affliction enough? How he hated the time bells!

Turning back to pay attention to the ropes that he was threading through the large round eyelet rings fixed to the deck he noticed his middie pacing past the other landsmen, busy as they were (as he was) on the unskilled tasks required for the ship to make way.

"Stow Anchor!" The sailing master called from the main deck, his order echoed through a chain of men starting with the officer of the watch to the midshipman in charge of the anchor-chain. Wickham noted the familiar tugging and heaving beneath him and he knew that a dozen more hands were as now shouldering the weight of the capstan.

Of the events that had previously unfolded on the maindeck Wickham was entirely ignorant; the pooling of the men around the excitement of a prisoner; the reason for their repatriation and, perhaps most significantly, the mizzenlad's name. As a result the future may well turn out to be far different than the one where William Wickham contemplated the reason a young boy had been returned to the flagship, especially if Wickham had heard the young boy's name.

Instead, the spymaster surveyed the crew for his quarry. He had two people to watch in the coming hours, during the battle. One he had located high above the deck at the present moment; the other, well – the Lord Admiral had not made his presence known as far as Wickham could see.

His target would have to be close by, Wickham knew, in order for the plan to be carried out smoothly. It called for perfect timing and, at the moment there were too many variable factors with which he had to consider before making his move. William Wickham strained further upwards as a figure appeared on the main deck. Now both were in his sight. The familiar tricorn, uniform bedecked with medals and insignia, and the form of Lord Nelson.

"Get yer 'head down!" A boot stamped next to Wickham, who knew better than to look round. He had to continue to be reserved, to remain undetected and so he resisted the urge to leap to his feet and wrap his section of rope around the man's neck.

Risking a glance up as the midshipman passed him by Wickham took in the care in which first Lord of the Admiralty was pacing around the deck inspecting even the lowliest of tasks being carried out by the humblest of men. The spymaster wondered whether his prior plan had come to fruition now, whether the events he had set in motion many months ago would come into play now as he had planned. Wickham had no choice but to hope – once the flagship was out in the open sea and he could put the last piece into place, as long as that part of the plan had been carried out effectively. All would be lost if it did not.

The noise of the drills being carried out, shouting of orders and racing around of the crew penetrated his thoughts and Wickham once again cursed his ill luck. He would be glad when this day was over and his task was over. His next mission, Wickham was determined, would take him nowhere near the sea.

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The smell in the hold was worse than that of the Surprise. Perhaps the fore-hold was not often used for prisoners and, undlike the rest of the ship, was not often cleaned or that the Captain preferred to keep the malodorous air within so that the memory would remind those occupying it as a reminder not to misdemeanour again.

Cicely's shoulder which had been hit and since redressed by Dr. Hardy on the Surprise, throbbed as she was wrenched by it again by Henry Jellicoe, Stephen Maturin's midshipman. The man, having been humiliated before his peers, subordinates and superiors through her misappropriated departure a couple of nights previously was taking out his frustrations and resentment on her.

They had barely gone through the fore-hole, the steps to below decks when he had beaten her, telling her as she foundered on the floor utterly shocked by his action, that the ship was one hand down because of her and that she had brought shame to the crew, the officers and, most significantly, him.

"You would have had a flogging above now, if had been up to me – " he pushed her towards the second hole, down to the lower gun deck," – and you may get one from me _yet_, if you do not _hurry_ out of my sight!

Cicely had fervently hoped that her descent would be hasty – the pain the middie was inflicting, his icy features fixed as he laid into her, was awful and she focused on her swiftly unravelling plan and the ways she could now adapt it. Her imprisonment was a huge obstacle to what she had originally conceived – in order to keep James Fillings (for it was now clear that this young man was Nelson's assassin) in her sights.

Another kick, in her calves this time. How she wished she could turn back to Jellicoe and spend five minutes doing him in return at this moment. Cicely's heart beat faster therefore as the fore-hold cell, which was really a corner on the lowest deck of the ship shielded by wide wooden bars. Jellicoe would leave her alone once she had got there.

However Cicely's hope had now proved premature; as they neared Jellicoe gave her one last push so that she skimmed across the rough planks, landing roughly on her left hand, the one burned by Sergeant Harker. She roared in pain, but refused to look back when Midshipman Jellicoe ordered her to.

"You would lay me right back, wouldn't you?" he growled, the truth hanging between them ominously. Then his eyes rested on the book which had fallen from Cicely's clothing, that belonging to Stephen, his young-authored notebook which still contained her own handwritten "Zoonomia" notes.

Cicely had felt the book leave her chest-bands and fly through her shirt-neck and she turned to look for its terminus. A moment passed between them before they both turned back to the book. Jellicoe was quicker and he scooped it up in a beautiful one-armed movement, as if he were swooping on a fish in a river. Holding it high mockingly, Jellicoe read aloud from her own work, his voice sarcastic, deriding her ownership.

"You can _read_, Maturin? I don't think I've anyone under my command who can _read_. Can you _write_ too? Is this _yours_?" He opened the book flat about halfway through, exposing a crudely-drawn bird, carefully annotated. Cicely waited, clenching her teeth as Jellicoe mocked her, and the writings until she thought she could take no more.

But there was worse to come, which hurt Cicely far more than her physical injuries. Henry Jellicoe tore the pages from the notebook, its spine and cover hanging limply from its binding as he pulled at it roughly. When it wouldn't yield easily to his destruction he turned to her own handwritten notes which tore into tiny fragments with ease.

"No!" Cicely heard herself cry. But it was no use – the book was defiled, her notes destroyed. What was left of Stephen's notebook Jellicoe hurled to the back of the gaol before aiming a kick at her, which missed.

"Get in there!" he bawled and Cicely scuttled forward, avoiding another ill-aimed booting. Throwing the wooden door closed behind her Henry Jellicoe gripped the bars and held them, his face, what might have been quite comely features had they not been twisted into a horrible grimace, snarled at her.

"I'll be glad when they whip you," he growled, his voice low and menacing. "You'll never forget to mind me!"

Cicely couldn't help it – as Jellicoe stalked back towards the hatch to make his ascent, some of the fragments of her notes sticking to his boots, she sat, knees bent, put her head on them and cried.

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Four bells rang true on the deck of the Surprise. Captain Jack Aubrey, resplendent in his full uniform, as had been the order from the Lord Admiral, stood on the quarter deck and broke off his survey of his command. He turned and glimpsed the flagship in his eye-arc upwards to the main mast.

The plan, as outlined to the captains, would, within the next few hours come to fruition. It was audacious. It was bold. It was daring. However it had been attempted before, just not on the scale Nelson was planning.

The fleet was to form two columns, one headed by the Victory and the other by Royal Sovereign, under command of Admiral Collingwood. Both columns would cut the enemy line in two places, the leeward and windward columns converging on the French flagship, Bucentaure and hammering with everything they had.

Aubrey watched the mizzenlads climb to supply the topmen with ropes – they would be vital to the strategy – Nelson's orders commanded the vessels to be full-sails so they would reach the enemy quickly, especially in the light winds which were playing about the ship. His eye rested on the flagship once more as he went to look to the main deck.

Of course there were disadvantages – not all of the fleet's ships would be able to see the Victory at once, making their response to the flag-signals slightly slower than they would otherwise have been were the ships in one single column. Clearly Nelson had banked on a slow, lapidary-nature to the combined French-Spanish fleet

How would the Surprise's supporting role be perceived? In what form would it take? To not engage with the enemy, as ordered, would, he knew, confuse the men. He had ordered the decks to be cleared already, as they were outing the harbour, fully aware of the spectacle a be-cannoned frigate miles from the scene of battle would look. But he knew his men too, and he had to keep a happy company.

What would be his ship's role? Jack asked himself that question as he examined Blakeney's inspection of the deck hands. Who knew? He would have to wait for the flag-signals from the Victory's mizzen.

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Opening her eyes, Cicely looked down at the rough floor on which she sat, and at Stephen's book. It had been quite badly damaged by Jellicoe but she had stowed it back inside her clothing quickly, close to her chest. She would not be able to rescue her "Zoonomia" notes, even if she could have reached them, so tiny a collection of pieces that they now were.

Her thoughts, in her stupor, had been of Stephen, of imagining him compiling the now much maligned notebook, imagining what he would have been like as a young man and a boy. Now, awake with the pounding of feet above her, distant cries, orders and orders being carried out she was pulled into the present, and what she had to do.

Cicely knew it was likely she would be imprisoned, Jack had said as much. It hadn't given her much time to prepare a counter plan but now, with the water swilling around the hull, an effect she could feel well in her makeshift gaol-cell deep down in the hold, one was forming.

She had to be sure, however, that her assertion was correct. It made complete sense to her that her friend, James Fillings, would be the assassin. How much of his story had contradicted two sources, that of Harris and of Captain Thomas Pullings himself? Even though Fillings was far simpler than she was, he was not a half-wit and only a half-wit would make up such a deliberate lie, that he had survived on to Portsmouth, when Harris and Pullings claimed their ship, the Acheron, was wrecked in the channel.

Cicely had to be sure, she knew. She could not think of any other explanation as to why James's account would differ so much from the corroborated truth but she also knew that she had to be sure – she had been wrong before in her idea that the assassin was Jean-Baptiste Lebec, the former captain of the Acheron. The only way would be to confront him.

But, when she thought about the James Fillings she knew, Cicely could barely believe that it would be true. Did he have it in him to carry out such an audacious act? And what would be his motive? Money? Alliance? It was true that his father, John Fotherington, who had befriended her in Brazil and had been searching out Jack Aubrey to kill him, had been a spy bent anti-British, pro-Catholic, pro-Jacobite sentiments. And that his grandfather had supplied a rebellion to the Jacobites in the 1730s in the north of England.

Cicely had told him of her plan, to kill Lebec and, as she had seen the ex-Acheron captain on the main deck that morning, she knew he hadn't carried out what he had promised. Either James Fillings was very clever, or very stupid.

The only way she could be sure, Cicely knew, would be to question him, ask him the truth. She knew it was likely he would tell her – perhaps he had been trying to do so before by his story of Acheron docking safely at Portsmouth.

Staring out along the hold-deck, the bilge pumps working now by the landsmen pushing and pulling at them strenuously, Cicely wondered how long would it be before the fleet would engage the enemy? And what then? Were a cannon to whistle through the air and land with a sharp thump against the hull, who would run to rescue her from her tiny prison?

"Cicely." A whisper made Cicely jerk her head from the prow-end of the flagship and she looked, guiltily, into the devil's face. "It's me, James," he added unnecessarily. Shocked, Cicely swallowed and tried to disguise her flustering as anger or upset at her being imprisoned.

"I heard you being brought aboard," he whispered, his voice still low. "Have you eaten? I've brought you this." Between the bars Cicely watched as her former pair and Nelson's supposed assassin pushed a lump of bread, clearly stolen from the stores.

"What're you doing here?" Cicely insisted in a returned whisper. "If anyone should find you here – "

"I've been sent on head duty," replied James glumly. "No-one expects to see me up yet." He pressed the bread further through the bars when he realised Cicely hadn't taken it, and he sat down adjacently. "I'm glad you're all right," he added, pulling from his clothing the other half that matched the bread he had given to Cicely.

"You too," replied Cicely, taking the bread and guiltily contemplating the thought she had just been harbouring. "I've got to get out of here, James," she added hopefully.

"The battle's comin'," James replied, sighing. "I hated the last one, the one on the Surprise, when we fought the Acheron. Do you remember?" Cicely nodded. How could she forget? She had run into Fotherington again and he had exposed her, both figuratively and literally. She had fought the French – fled from the French most of the time, in fact. But she had come face to face with the enemy, fighting in her brother's stead, for Edward's honour.

"I'll get you out, Cicely, I promise," he added, munching on his bread. "Somehow, before the battle. You still going to get Lebec?" Cicely nodded, trying to make her conformation appear seamless.

"He's to assassinate Nelson," Cicely concluded softly. "I've got to stop Nelson's assassin." Seemingly unswayed by her comment however James nodded vaguely in front of him, chewing on his bread. Above them six bells rang forth – seven o'clock. James looked at Cicely urgently and scrambled to his feet.

"I've got to go; I'm supposed to be done by the start of the forenoon!" Cicely watched him leap around as if on hot coals. "I…I…" he stopped and stared at Cicely. "I've got to _go_," he repeated agitatedly, before staring back at Cicely and then the bread that she hadn't touched, in her hand. "Eat that…I'll get you out of there, I promise," he added, making to hare towards the steps and up through the hatch. He paused.

"I'm so pleased to see you, Cicely," he added, grinning at her. "I'll be back!"

Cicely watched James hurry towards cleaning the outlets that the hands and officers used as latrines on the ship and vaguely wondered why, on the very edge of battle, the cleanliness of the privy facilities was so important.

Then, weary from thought Cicely lowered her head onto her knees, trying to block out the confusion that were her conflicting ideas. Tears welled again – _could_ she do it? Stop James, if the assassin were indeed him, which was almost certain. _How_ could she do it? How _would_ she do it? What she did know was, however, that unless she got out of there someone would assassinate Lord Nelson.

As darkness invaded Cicely's mind Juana Margill watched her from the shadows.

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	29. England Expects

"Le Victoire…Le Temeraire…"

Captain Pierre-Charles Villeneuve, Admiral of the combined French-Spanish fleet, peered through his spyglass at the ships that were following them northwards naming those which he could. The day was dull, though the clouds moved quickly and promised a finer morning, and the sun was no brighter than an oil lamp in the gloom. What the weather would be like that afternoon few people would probably venture an opinion – both large fleets may well engaged in something a little more significant than meteorology.

"…c'est…Souverain Royale…" Villeneuve's First Lieutenant had also taken up his telescope and was eyeing the British fleet. Villeneuve looked to where Dubois had his glass fixed and then drew his own up to his eye.

The eighth bell of the morning watch rang out over the decks of Bucentaure. The men, assembled in their squads were ready for the action. Not ready enough, Villeneuve contemplated bitterly.

"…et un…frigate…carres-greemente…canon pret…"

Villeneuve swerved towards the sight. Indeed his lieutenant was correct – a square-rigged frigate with its cannon out was flanking the British flagship. This spectacle also made his ship's doctor, Guillaume Dupuytren, take notice. He looked up from his ever-mysterious scribblings (which Admiral Villeneuve suspected were reports to be sent directly to Bonaparte, but were in fact details of the habit of the men and their lives, their ablutive and dietary habits, their health and medical conditions. Mostly.)

"May I?" Villeneuve passed his telescope to the tall, dark-featured surgeon, trying not to let his tension show. Dupuytren had flanked him closely, very closely, since his recommendation, a strongly worded letter from the Emperor and had Villeneuve feel uneasy, not least by his almost constant writing. As admiral of the fleet he knew he was a good one, but he would make a better one had he the absolute autonomy of his fleet that he so desired and deserved.

An even better one stood, even now, Villeneuve inferred, on the Victory's quarterdeck, with his aqueous realm acting at one on his command. In contrast his fleet had come to verbal, and near physical blows, when they met a fortnight before, by the light of the full moon, left some captains, especially the Spanish, uneasy, unclear, un-united…

"I believe I know this ship," Dupuytren offered, handing the brass telescope back to the Admiral. "On release from my gaol in Portsmouth this was the ship, I do believe, which transported me back to France. Its doctor treated my injuries," he added. Villeneuve said nothing. It was unusual for the Emperor's surgeon to voice anything of note and, while his information was interesting it did nothing to help his strategy.

"Bon, merci," replied Villeneuve politely, taking up his telescope again. Some of the mist had lifted slightly and more of the British fleet were visible. They were gaining. Their ships would have to retreat. Further north would be the best option and he gave Captain Magendie the order.

Wind flapped a little and, over the course of the next hour and a half dropped to almost nothing. However, Villeneuve would not know this yet and, even if he had have done, the seeds of defeat were already sown.

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Cicely found herself pacing as the second bell of the forenoon watch tolled far ahead. The shop was moving at speed now; she could hear the faint shouts above of orders being given, feet pounding the decks, cannon being rolled out and decks being cleared. Above her, the galley fire had been doused as food for the crew had been prepared – the men and officers had messed (though none had been brought to her) – a sure sign that battle was impending.

She felt herself becoming agitated – Cicely had eaten the bread that James had given to her and waited the two or so hours from then to now as she waited for him to return. Her task was returning to her mind moment to moment – she was to assassinate the assassin. The options, consequences, conclusions clustered in her mind vying for attention as two conflicting parts of her mind fought for supremacy.

Joseph Fouche had given her that role, and she had reluctantly accepted it with Stephen's life as assurance. Now she knew Stephen was dead her original task was redundant. Did she really need to escape to find out the assassin's identity, and stop him, ultimately kill him? What If she didn't leave at all? What if she remained here?

Then she wouldn't be doing her duty, as silently agreed with Jack, upon Stephen's memory. Who could stand by knowing the untimely death of such a man as Lord Nelson was imminent?

Was it James? He had been so nonchalant when he had spoken to her, before being sparked into life by his duty. An hour ago she had called out to him – Cicely had seen, or thought she had seen a figure near the bilge pumps. Clearly her desperately-hoping imagination and she had sat down trying to judge the best course of action which, in her incarcerated state, were currently limited. She –

Steps, hurrying down from the hatch above, made Cicely break her tempestuous thoughts and she got to her feet, brushing herself off and anticipating James's round, eager face found herself looking at not one, but three figures belting in her direction.

First was Philip Dixon; his impatience to get to her caused him to fall awkwardly a couple of feet before the wooden bars. Bill Gibbons saw him just in time and jumped over him, out of the way. Reuben Jelfs was not so lucky and fell over the hapless Philip, grumbling at him, annoyed. Dixon's face was one of bemusement at his own clumsiness. Bill leaned over him and offered him a hand.

"Thou shouldn't've ran, Stephen, thou'st fer it now!" Philip's fast pace meant he was stumbling over his words as he scuttled towards Cicely, grinning as if her fate was the best joke he had heard that year.

"Quite so," replied Cicely slowly and nodding at Philip. "I say, did you speak to James Fillings?"

"Him!" scoffed Bill, slapping his thigh. "When do we ever talk to deck hands?" She glanced at Reuben Jelfs who was silent – he knew Cicely, as Stephen Maturin, had been conversing with James the night she had absconded.

"I mean," continued Philip, ignoring both Bill's comment and Cicely's question, "you getting too much drink in yer," he added, "then skippin' off? Doltish, if yer ask me," he added. You'd know, thought Cicely, very much to herself and then cursed herself for thinking such a mean thing. She was tired; she had been through a hellish few days. Get to the point, lads, _please_, she begged to her mess-mates silently.

"We've swapped wills," Philip pressed on blithely, "you've got mine, and I've got yours, ain't that right, Jelfsy? I left all I got to yer," he continued, "even though that's a couple o' shillin' And we all got new clothes," he added, looking down at his fresh attire proudly. "Seems a bit of a waste if we're goin' to battle," he added.

"Shut up, Philip," interrupted Bill, shaking his head. "Don't be such a horse-ninny! It's because new clothes don't have dirt on 'em. If you get shot, you're more likely to live if you've got clean clothes on. I've written back to Florence, my true love," he added, changing the subject. "And we just wanted to come down and see you, and say good luck." Cicely inhaled, before exhaling raggedly.

"I could join you," she prompted. They had come down to see her, but not to let her out? Reuben Jelfs who, since she had thumped him having emerged from the Captain's cabin, having determined the identity of Lebec, had been cool with her ever since, shook his head slowly.

"What do you think would happen to us if they found out we let you out? We'd all be for a flogging." Jelfs folded his arms as if to underline his assertion. But Philip frowned, especially when Cicely pressed her point.

"I can fight," she continued firmly. "I was on a ship, the Surprise, and we boarded a French frigate and fought the Frogs." With a glimmer of satisfaction Cicely noticed a glint of astonishment in Philip's eyes.

"Really?" asked Bill, who seemed equally impressed. "You've fought before, Stephen?" Cicely nodded. "Killed, too. But that's not important."

"It is," replied Reuben. "We're supposed to kill the enemy."

"Anyway," interrupted Bill, as footsteps above, but far enough away not to detect them immediately, caused mizzenlad Gibbons to get, uncharacteristically, to the point. "We just wanted to know if you had a letter you wanted to pass on to a sweetheart, or a will for us to keep." Cicely sighed again, her heart sinking. They really weren't here to let her out – was it just her own will that she should be released making the assumption that they were? That they would? She shook her head.

"Then we'd better go," replied Jelfs, turning towards the steps. "Good luck," he added hollowly. Bill turned to go too, but Philip turned towards Cicely. Now was her chance.

"Philip," she begged, "I can fight; I can help you."

"Dixon!" hissed Bill from the steps, we've got to go."

"I've got to go," Philip repeated, but his face was etched in sorrow, for her, for her plight. "If they catch us, we're fer it."

"What if I told you something, a secret?" Cicely's desperation had made her raise her voice and the retreating Philip turned back and looked at her, open-eyed.

"What?"

"Dixon!" Jelfs's voice echoed down the hatch. "Come on!" But Philip Dixon had chosen to ignore his friends and had returned to Cicely, looking at her intently.

"What?" he repeated urgently. Cicely paused. Philip Dixon was a clot, a dullard, a ninnyhammer. But he was innocent in a child-like way. She was about to play on his simpleness and she hated herself for conceiving it.

"The Lord Admiral," began Cicely, trying to think of the best way to explain it to Dixon. "When he's out at the battle, he's going to be killed."

"We're going to battle," replied Dixon. From above Cicely heard a song, very faintly, filtering down to them…

"…hearts of oak are our ships…"

"Anyone might get killed."

"No!" snapped Cicely, rather forcefully. "From the flagship. _Our _ship." She paused as Philip took on the information. "Someone on our ship is going to kill Admiral Nelson during the battle! The battle is an ideal place for a murder, isn't it? All that smoke, the noise, the guns hammering…" She trailed off as confusion crossed Philip's face.

"…jolly tars are our men…"

"So you want me to let you out to fight?" he tried uncertainly.

"Yes! No!" replied Cicely unclearly. "I need to keep an eye on Lord Nelson and work out who it is."

"You mean to say you don't know?" replied Philip, shocked. "How do you know that someone's going to kill him?" Cicely stopped. How could she explain all of that?

"…never see our foes but we wish them to stay…"

"I just…know. Look," she summarised, "let me out, _please_ Philip," she begged. "You can lock me back up afterwards – no-one will ever know." But Philip Dixon was retreating from her cell, shaking his head. He turned when he got to the hold steps and, looking back to her, silently apologised to her before running up the steps.

"…and wish us away…"

Cicely sagged. Her last hope. A forlorn hope now, she knew. Within the next hour or so the flagship would engage the enemy and the last thing on anyone's mind would be her. Cicely put her head on her knees and wept.

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Seven bells on the forenoon watch. Half past eleven. Jack Aubrey, Captain of the Surprise was scrutinising the pennants being held aloft from the now stationary flag ship. Several messages had been transmitted, instructions to the fleet as to their role and position. Over on the leeward column identical pennants were being raised on the Royal Sovereign relaying the Victory's message to the ships behind it.

"Yes, Mr. Mowett?" Aubrey turned from his view of the mizzen of the flagship.

"The men are assembled, sir, as you requested." It was an unusual request, and Jack knew it. Usually before battle, the order for "clear to action" meant everything bar the guns were cleared away from the gun decks. Above decks boats, which could shower deadly wood splinters if hit were covered and the rigging was secured, with splinter nets laid out. The men had sanded and wetted the decks and butts of water were placed so the men on different stations could refresh themselves easily. The arms chests were deployed on the main deck so the boarding party could access it easily.

In fact, none of this had been done bar the sanding and wetting. In addition their guns were prone, which was slowing down the Surprise and somewhat defeated the object of opening full the sails. Not that anyone aboard would question the captain's orders, but Jack had to be sure he was uniting the men sufficiently for the plan he had in mind.

"Very good, Mr. Mowett." Jack thanked his first lieutenant and moved to the rails by the edge of the quarterdeck and surveyed his men who were staring at him attentively, his lieutenants and middies flanking him solemnly. All hands _were_ on deck, as had been called for and looked over the faces of the men, blank save for the anticipation of duty.

The battle would not be long to start. The British fleet was now in its columns and the enemy's fleet was in a crescent formation, trying its best to flee. Jack was about to address the men, but paused as Dr. Hardy climbed the steps to his left and stood next to Midshipman Barrington.

Yes, they were ready. The doctor had been down to the cockpit (not used for fighting cocks, never on the Surprise for the practise had died out at least seventy years previously, but as bloody and grisly tasks would be undertaken in their place). He would have been sharpening the instruments and arranging the tubs. Many wings and legs may be donated to the waves after this day's work, Aubrey mused.

"Men of the Surprise," he began. "We are about to face the enemy." He handed a piece of paper to Mowett, the transcription of the signal sent from the flagship which Jack had himself taken down.

"Our Lord Admiral has privileged us by speaking to us. To all of us. For his message is for each and every one of you directly." He nodded over his men again.

"Men of the Surprise," he continued. "We are to flank HMS Victory and offer our support. She is to lead her column right to the heart of the enemy. We need to be focused and steady as we sail towards the enemy. We will not fire on the enemy ships. Our nerve may make or break the battle, and it is important that you know this. Each and every one of you is important, everything you do now is important and now Victory depends on us!"

"Hurrah!" cheered the men patriotically.

"Our Lord Admiral's message is to you, to every man here. His message reads, "England expects that every man will do his duty. And that is exactly what we are going to do!"

"Hurrah! Hurrah!"

"So go men, to your stations. Every man, do your duty!"

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William Wickham, engaged as his duty above the mizzendeck, had the man in his sights. He had a job to do, just like everyone else aboard the flag ship and now, loading the cannon as he had been assigned to do, he cursed his ill luck as he wielded the heavy metal balls into position.

He had seen Wickham, had the assassin. He was a deck hand, and as such was employed in keeping a section of the decks clear of clutter and debris which would hinder the progress of their gunners. So the assassin would now assume he was keeping an eye on him to make sure he did what he had been paid to do.

Good. That was exactly what he had hoped the assassin would think. And when the ship sailed close to the enemy then William Wickham would have his chance. Chaos would ensue; splinters would rise, blood would flow, bullets would fly. One of those would be his.

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Cicely heard the first of the cannon boom from the larboard. It had started and she was not there. She rested her forehead on her knees as she wept for Admiral Lord Nelson. What could she now do to prevent such a catastrophe?

It had been in her waking vision that Cicely had imagined someone in the shadows minutes ago. She had called out to them, hoping that they would come near, so she could tell them, in her desperation that the Admiral was in danger. Had she felt saner she might have been more confident her assertion that someone was there, in the shadows, and she may well have called out with all her might.

No, there was nothing more she could do but sit and listen to the battle around her, wondering to herself of her own eventual fate. Had she been paying a little more attention she may well have heard feet near the bilge pumps but the first noise Cicely registered was a hasty scuttling of someone on the deck above, a thud-thud-thud of feet on the steps and further thumping of that same someone on the deck in front of her.

"Were yer serious?" cicel lifted her head and blinked muzzily through tear-swollen eyes.

"The Lord Admiral." Philip Dixon's voice was hasty, as if his life depended on him talking as quickly as possible. It probably did.

"Yes…yes…" said Cicely, when his question had penetrated her cerebellum. "Lord Nelson. Someone will kill him." She wondered why he was here before her when he had fled before but this time she noticed a spark in his eyes, as if something hitherto hidden were alive in him. His eyes flashed as he grinned at her.

"I see it like this. If you will go back, as you said, and the Lord Admiral hasn't got someone fer him, then no-one loses. But if he has and you stay 'ere, then…"

Yes! shouted Cicely silently to herself. Yes!

"…so I is 'ere." Cicely looked at the wooden pegs which were lodged between the grooves holding the door to the gaol in place, out of her reach.

"There," she garbled, "get those out." Dixon stopped suddenly and looked at her gravely.

"Stephen. Can yer give me yer word that what yer say is true?" Cicely nodded fervently, hoping her expression matched.

"Then I'd be glad ter help yer," he added and, after a few moments fumbling with the pegs had pulled the door ajar.

As they ascended Cicely's mind, far from thanking the good fortune she had just received, reassembled her original, once faded plan. Cannon boomed above, reverberating through the oak of the ship. Soon, it would be terrifyingly loud, and near.

She needed to get into a position she wouldn't be seen, blend in on the mizzen but still be able to see the Lord Admiral. And, Cicely's hindbrain reminded her, she should keep an eye on James Fillings too.


	30. That Every Man

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The battle just off Cape Trafalgar was heating up into a violent conflict: gunfire, cannon and smoke. As planned, the two British columns were converging in the now-becalmed French-Spanish fleet whose captains and commanders had had the pleasure of the first volley of fire and had much relished it.

Several extremities of several ships were lying scattered across their decks; Conqueror had already lost its jibboom, which its topmen had hastily, but not hastily enough, scrambled up to furl; Neptune's anchor had been bent double from a shot from the Hermione and Temeraire had taken a pounding from Redoubtable's larboard guns, resulting in splinters scattered in the netting, for which the deck crews would have been profoundly grateful if they had had been in a position to think about it.

So far a very pleased Admiral Villeneuve was standing on the Bucentaure's quarterdeck considering his prior thoughts for the enemy's Admiral of the Fleet. Perhaps not so great after all, he though swiftly, and glanced downwards to the cockpit where Dupuytren was now residing, waiting for his first casualty. How he would relish allowing the surgeon know of this success.

It was nearly an hour into the afternoon watch as Bucentaure hammered her cannon to the British flagship and Redoubtable rounded to the starboard. To Redoubtable's starboard other British ships were flocking but far slower than their original speed and Villeneuve gave the order to run up which told Redoubtable to continue with her pounding of Victory, which Bucentaure would now also join.

It was working. Both ships working on the British flagship was causing much confusion to their enemy. Each French ship was no more than four hundred yards from the Victory and Bucentaure delivered a devastating raking broadside, blowing splinters and exposing inner decks in her wake.

Admiral Villeneuve disappeared below decks and appeared with a French imperial eagle as her guns continued to hammer and pound and he held it aloft on the quarter deck minutes later.

"I will it onto the enemy ship and we will take it back there!" A cheer came from those who had heard him and the French made preparations for boarding Victory.

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Juana Margill shivered in her garments. She still had the remnants of makeup and most of her clothing, having made it through the night virtually unscathed. One or two skirmishes perhaps but she had survived. She was in a unique situation: never before would she do what she was about to do (now, having located her target, this would be imminent) and if her timing was out she wouldn't be in a position to do _anything_ again.

What had led her to the hold? Intrigue, that's what. Had he seen her? Juana doubted it. But then little got past Robert Young. Or, more correctly aboard _this _ship, Stephen Maturin. The latter had intrigued her too: why had Young chosen to disguise himself using _that_ particular name, one that was so well known to her it could have been her own…?

But, in the stead of any lady of the night, any good one at least, she would not be telling when finally Wickham she did encounter. William Wickham! Her mind considered him with scorn. It had taken a few moments of shock for Juana to take in the sight of him, working steadily above board, and a couple of moments more to assimilate him into her plan. Wickham! That despicable rogue! That cad. That bescumberer! She now knew what it was precisely she needed to do and the pleasure would be all hers.

From her position near under the main deck's hatch, hidden from sight and bereft of garments which would delay her in her task Seniorita Margill looked up and waited. She knew the location of both of those she sought but the problem was the timing. She needed to wait for a moment when, if it came, the flagship was living up to its name against the French fleet when the crew's attention would be diverted to its upmost. When that would be wasn't at all certain at the present moment.

She could see Captain Hardy, his face firm as he issued orders, stood strong as a position of power and checked the stations of the men before him. How Juana wished she had taken proper interest in naval or military strategy, but to her something seemed amiss with the Lord Admiral, who was standing next to the Captain officiously.

But what in the name of all that was holy was Nelson doing? It seemed illogical to her that he should be wearing his full uniform, complete with epaulettes and medals for anyone to see! Surely there would be other ways to inspire nationalistic pride into the men other than being such an obvious target for the…_enemy_.

Consigning her lubberish knowledge to the depths of her mind, Juana Margill counted the shots being fired by the Victory and then the shots received by the enemy. They were winning this one-on-one battle. She put her hand on the pistol that had, up until now, remained a closely guarded secret (to everyone) in her undergarments and withdrew it, holding it firmly to her bosom. She glanced up at the Captain and the Admiral again, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the heat of battle. Now. Now was the time for her to act.

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Cicely had made it to the main deck, paused as Philip Dixon hared back to his gun crew and paused, as the starboard guns erupted thunderously. Jerking to one side she nearly fell back down the steps she had just ascended and held onto the outer edge, saving herself though tearing into her hand flesh, over the now-healing burn.

Gaining a foothold she surveyed the deck. She had half a plan, one which involved her muscling in on the sail-top work – risky she knew as the French were firing into the masts, but one which meant she would be able to locate James and see Nelson. Cicely had considered reporting straight to Jellicoe but thought better of it after her beating.

The steps to the quarter deck were still intact on the starboard side – the flight larboard was half-destroyed – so she chanced a dash towards them and up to the mizzen mast. The midshipman overseeing the mizzenlads there glanced at Cicely's hastening. She stopped once she had been seen and saluted.

"Yes? I didn't expect more hands."

"I've come from Doctor Beatty," Cicely lied. "Lieutenant Williams sent me." Midshipman Barton narrowed his eyes Aubrey-like and Cicely hung her head slightly deferentially. "Begging your pardon, sir," she added, as a measure of insurance. Robert Cutts Barton looked aloft. They still had masses of sails, sheets and shrouds to stow from the ship's glorious entrance and it wasn't as if Lieutenant Williams had the time to announce his relocation of a man, they were in the middle of a ferocious battle after all.

"Up," he shouted, pointing to the rigging. Cicely scrambled to her feet and, gripping the rope between her knees, got herself to the first shroud, helping the floundering landsman who was struggling to tie it fast. She clung to the rigging momentarily as a cannon flew between the mizzen and main masts before catching her breath: not for the near miss but because she had seen the red hair of her friend on the deck below.

Cicely swallowed again, before concentrating on the task in hand, looking down every so often following James's gait. From what she could tell he was still assigned to his role as a deck hand and as such, was busy, along with others, in clearing the decks of debris; wood shards, bullet shot and, most importantly, dousing any sparks which may cause a fire.

An strangled cry caused Cicely to look down – some of the deckhands were rolling around in agony as splinters from a cannon ball exploding against the middle of the upper gun deck threw up fresh oak, some of which had lodged into a variety of body parts. James was hit, rolling around on the floor, gripping his foot.

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Half an hour after Admiral Villeneuve of the combined French-Spanish fleet had issued a challenge to his men to recapture a French eagle which he would throw onto the Victory's main deck and the Bucentaure was in difficulty. Far from being able to board the enemy flagship the admiral was now engaged fighting three English ships, namely Neptune, Conqueror and Temeraire.

The ships had turned so they were now parallel to the French flagship and, with accuracy and precision, were dealing back the trouble the French had bombarded their flagship with less than an hour before. To Bucentaure's prow, on a northern footing Redoubtable and Victory were matching one another, cannon ball for cannon ball, bullet for bullet. Just.

Villeneuve knew he would have to depend on the strength of each individual captain to maintain the combat at such close quarters and, with the wind so light, the ships at either end of the crescent would have difficulty in going about to assist with the destruction that was taking place in the centre. He tried not to rub his head lest he show anything other than strength to his men and cause unsteadiness as they, now, were feeling the brunt of English firepower.

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Throwing the last of the stays around the shroud Cicely began a hasty descent down. That James had been working close to the Lord Admiral, on the quarter deck, couldn't be overlooked.

"Hey!" A voice behind her, namely that of the topman whom she had begun to assist, made Cicely turn and the man gestured up to the next shroud, whose original men had been shot away by Redoubtable's pistol-shots from their rigging. Cicely continued downwards and away from the shouting man, who was now trying to alert Barton to her descent.

If she could get James below decks, Ciccely reasoned, if he was with the doctor, then he wouldn't be able to assassinate Nelson. If it was indeed he who was the assassin, a part of her mind added. She hammered down the steps which she had climbed fifteen minutes before and made for James, but another man, hurrying from the fo'c'sle, was also running towards him, past the other injured landsmen, limping and stumbling around.

As Cicely neared the man held out his hand which James took, and got up clumsily. Why would this man be there, doing this…?

"Get out of here, Cicely!" cried James as she hurried closer.

"No!" shouted back Cicely as she watched his eyes flick towards the Admiral through the melee. It felt bizarre standing there, confronting James when, for so many weeks she had played out how she would stop Lord Nelson's assassin. It was if, were she to look aloft, Cicely thought distractedly, she might see herself looking down and her, James, the man behind him, the battle.

"Stephen Maturin." The man who was still supporting – or rather gripping – James spoke out now, looking at her coldly. "Better for you to turn around and go back to the heavens." 

"Cicely!" shrieked James desperately. "Go!"

"No!" shouted back Cicely, repeating her assertion. "I won't let you do it James! I won't let you murder the Admiral." She watched his eyes betray his uncertainty. So, she had been right, in the end, who the assassin was, but now, when it came to it, James did not have it in him to actually carry it out.

"Cicely Hollum," intoned the man holding James. "How good to meet you at last!" Cicely ignored him, ignoring too the fact that he knew exactly who she was for he had just removed a pistol from his tunic.

"You are to kill Nelson?" William Wickham laughed. "But I thought…" She looked at James, confused now at the spectacle.

"You believed that! He _couldn't _do it, and I knew it too." James swung round, is pain turning to outrage as the man who had recruited him to do the job was now laughing at him scornfully. "You believed that was your task? You believed that you had the strength of body and courage to be like your father? Ha!" Without warning James grabbed the pistol from the man and held it in a shaky hand. Instead of fighting back or protesting the man just laughed again.

"James, no!" shrieked Cicely and made a step towards it. James levelled the pistol at her, drawing back the lock before angling it at Lord Nelson. "_NO_!"

Cicely's scream was cut short however as Wickham made a run for her but, before he could take more than a couple of steps he collapsed. Behind him, Jean-Baptiste Lebec held a section of blown-away mast.

"Go, go!" he shouted towards Cicely as James held the pistol up again. He pulled the trigger. But Cicely had already begun her sprint towards Nelson. She barrelled past the more robust Captain Hardy and leapt towards the Lord Admiral, the latter too astonished that a landsman was launching himself towards him. Both fell and, a bullet lodged in her stomach, Cicely tumbled to the deck.

Twenty feet away James Fillings crumpled after the shot, falling to his knees as blood began to pool around his legs upon the deck and then a stream of red saliva. Lebec withdrew his dagger from his body.

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From a hill high above the port of Cadiz the company of the 105th rifles had upped their camp and were assembled, waiting for further orders to depart. The soldiers were getting a little restless, though they dared not show their discomfort before their commanding officer. They were to march, Major Blunt had informed them, and their journey would be long and arduous and many of them were eager to get several miles under their feet.

"There'll be a bloody day out there, that's for sure." Blunt took a leg and leaned it against a boulder. He and Sergeant Harker had a glorious view of the sea, of the Atlantic Ocean, lit with heaven-sent light from the heavens on this autumn midday.

"And we will do the same on land," replied Harker, hands on hips. He knew that the men were anxious and he was determined to make it known to his commander.

"I'm not sure," replied Blunt, still resting his leg, "the General has a different arena: we have to march to Spain, or sail to her. We have to go by foot, billet with local people. Nelson has command of the seven seas. He can sail where he wants." He lowered his leg and glanced towards his men. "We'd better get going before the sun sets," he added.

At last, thought Patrick Harker with relief; he had wondered at how slow the Major had taken to take up the camp and though he must have had his reasons Richard Blunt had not shared them with him. Harker made a few steps in the direction of the regiment, his arm aching at the recent injury. Blunt took a step with him. Then something occurred to Sergeant Harker.

"One thing I wanted to ask you, Richard," he began.

"Yes, Pat?"

"Private Young, who turned out to be a lassie? You know, she gave our Rosita such a pretty thing. She'll be fighting out there as ever as fierce as she did with me." He jerked his head coastwards.

"Aye. Probably so."

"Remind me of her name?"

"Cicely," replied Blunt, assessing his regiment. They were fit to go, they were ready. "Cicely Maturin." For they were in for a long march. "What of it?"

"Yes, that's right, because you called her Mrs Maturin," he replied thoughtfully. Blunt sighed. He knew that Patrick Harker rarely took time to share the scenic route of a conversation without very good reason, but it didn't stop it from being so damned frustrating.

"Get to the bloody point, Pat!"

"The man who met us when we were under siege, who gave us instruction to head east…?"

"_Yes_, Pat?"

"What was _his_ name…?" Blunt paused for a moment before looking aghast.

"Oh, bloody hell!"

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Juana Margill retreated into the shadows. There was nothing that could have been done to help ether Fillings or _Maturin_ now. The man who had struck William Wickham – how she wished it could have been her – had disappeared leaving the confusion of the battle to fill in the voids that the incident had caused and now, looking at the place where Nelson had been standing Robert Young's body lay, motionless.

Seniorita Margill held her head in her un-pistolled hand and rubbed her forehead before saying a few brief quiet words for his passing. And then she looked up. She had a traitor to find: Wickham, who she was going to finish off there and then as he lay unconscious was unconscious no more, probably roaming the ship. With the pistol that James had wrested from him. Possibly seeking her.

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It was nearly two in the afternoon. While many of the English ships were successfully fighting the enemy ships Captain Jack Aubrey was watching with increasing dismay the Victory being overpowered by the might of the French Redoubtable.

Cannon after cannon shot into her top bows, into her masts and rigging, the deck showered with bullets, the air thick with smoke and sweat. What had done for her was the force of the grenades, being hurled by topmen from the rigging, taking pre-assembled incendiaries from covered baskets placed high in the mid-sections.

From his eyeglass Aubrey could see that the captain had ordered the boarding party to prepare – the guns had been pushed forward so as to clear a way for the gun crews to go over the edge and make it to Victory's deck. It was catastrophic, Jack knew, but he had had the temerity (with respect to his orders) or the common sense (with respect to seamanship) to edge closer, to the stern-line of the Victory to the North of the windward column.

All of the French or Spanish ships who had managed to fight with the little wind that day were already engaged, and by not having fought with the rest of the ships, thereby offering a degree of cover, HMS Surprise was in a uniquely advantageous position.

"Clear the decks! Prepare to engage!" He shouted the orders to Mowett, who relayed it to the lieutenants, allowing it to trickle through the hierarchy.

His orders were to not engage the French or Spanish ships, and not to fight in the battle. However what they were not, were not to defend the Royal Navy's flagship from utter annihilation. He would stand for punishment, Aubrey decided, he would ask for a court martial to defend his action. He saluted the ensign, catching his hand on his tunic, the lapel turning over and Jack Aubrey glanced down briefly.

The capstan heaved under raw, aching muscle and Surprise, having the wind advantage, approached from the starboard bow of the Redoubtable and fired on the exposed French crew with a carronade, causing many casualties. It was the linchpin. Within half an hour Captain Lucas would surrender and Victory would win her battle, and, in turn, the day.

What the crew of the Surprise heard, between the captain's issuing of orders, as he discovered a small nasturtium embroidered in scarlet thread and next to it a four-leafed clover.

"Dammit, Robert Young, dammit!"


	31. Will Do His

So, you've worked it all out then? I do hope so…or not…? Read on, MacDuff!

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Juana Margill had not been surprised that William Wickham had not been where he had fallen ten minutes later and she had used all her cunning to locate him again. Now she watched as his escape took him through the rigging, up to the royals and topgallant sections of masts and then, either bravely or foolishly, was a leap towards the Redoubtable, leaping towards the enemy ship's corresponding mast section.

Foolish, though Juana Margill who had pursued him aft and partially up the rigging as the boarding party from HMS Victory set foot on the French frigate and quickly overran it. She had toyed with the idea of retreating back to the mid-deck where the rims of both vessels were touching so as to meet Wickham on the other side but, after a swift speed-time calculation figured she would never make it in time.

She had been right – one of the small boats of the Redoubtable was, even now, heading in the direction of Spain and there was little Juana could do to stop it – even exposing her hand to the Victory's crew would not have enabled anyone to catch him. God-damn the man! She had been so close too! Had it not been for Jean-Baptiste Lebec she would have been behind Wickham herself and she wouldn't have left him a-decks with only a nasty headache.

Juana Margill unhooked a delicately-shoed foot from the last of the rigging, absently thanking the heavens that the thundering of warfare all around them had, between these two ships at least, stopped and turned away from the fleeing ex-patriot. Both knew she had survived his attempt at killing her and that he had escaped her hunting him.

She wondered what the future would hold, and whether she would excel enough to catch him again and next time, complete the job. At least he could not return to England, and she could expose him to Toby Hamilton, chief of military espionage operations, for the traitor that he was. And to think, he had tried to frame her for Nelson's assassination – the _impertinence_!

Juana sighed again and looked down from the quarterdeck onto the main. No, the pursuit would be in vain. Besides, there were other things were more urgent now to her mind, graver things to worry about. The woman calling herself Robert Young calling himself Stephen Maturin. Had Wickham not shouted it aloud there was a chance Juana would not have realised.

But…where_ was_ she? Milling around in the open air men of all ranks were taking the injured and the dying below decks, to the cockpit - _that _would be where she would be, in a place she knew very well, in that butchery which served as a hospital upon a warship, where Beatty would now be hacking limbs, administering stupor-inducing drugs and sewing up while Smith was fetching and carrying, nursing and soothing.

Juana hastened her step, knowing that, acting as a mere mizzenlad that Cicely was, it was unlikely she would have been treated, or at even her wounds considered. She would be last in the queue of deserving, behind more senior officers with stubbed toes and the like, such a vile practice which the surgeon of the Surprise had long since altered, giving primacy to, more humanely, those who needed it most urgently. Juana Margill knew she would have to act fast if she were to save Cicely's life.

Refusing to allow that thought a space in her mind Juana hurried to the main deck's hatch and down the stairs, vowing that she would pay penance in a thousand hells should Robert Young now die.

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Below deck, the floor swimming with blood and viscera which sloshed to and fro with the rolling of the ship and the stench making the headwaters seem pure, Juana Margill looked around. Every available space in the cavernous gun deck, was now occupied with the injured and the dying, some even lying upon the guns themselves for want of room

Abaft the gunroom was anything but – an open expanse of human bodies, at least three dozen, crammed together and wanting a sense of organisation and expediency. These men were dying, injured and in pain and displayed the qualities thus. Those whose agonising wounds were not being treated, broken limbs, impaled flesh and the like expounded their suffering loudly. Others lay still, silently, in a state of unconsciousness or through bravery daring not to call out in their varying stages of decay

Many were being treated, cared for and pacified by other crew members, like for like, though little in the way of treatment had happened or was happening. Yes, their numbers were many but that should have made Beatty more organised. Juana wondered whether Thomas Hardy may have fared better.

At the centre of the cockpit William Beatty stood, assessing a midshipman's shoulder injury, staring at it intently as he decided what to do next, surrounded by instruments which were to hand, hot water under his nose brought by Neil Smith. Striding past the surgeon and his assistant Juana scanned the room, her eyes urgently seeking out Robert Young.

Those she passed called out to her pitifully, begging for help, water, comfort but Juana walked by hastily. There seemed to be a group of bodies lying to one side, larboard, who seemed to be unperturbed and, to a fleeting glance, asleep. Juana hurried over, turning the faces of those still, not-yet-corpses, looking at their features, some mangled, some unshaven, most illucent, healthy pallor ebbing, or ebbed. Then, to one side, by the panelling which separated the aft upper deck from the cockpit lay Robert Young.

His eyes were closed, lids sunken, with blood to his face and neck, though not obviously his. Not wishing to move him far yet wishing to pull his body far from those other poor wretched souls with whom he lay, Juana moved him to a clearer spot, feeling his arms, his abdomen, his legs. She touched where the red staining appeared to be, in his left hip, a large, five-inch diameter stain, scarlet and damp and, under her fingers Robert Young flinched a little. He was still alive. Cicely was still alive.

Juana felt again – a bullet had obviously penetrated her hip and, from an investigation to Young's opposing side, the back of his hip, ascertained there was no exit wound. The bullet was lodged inside him. She glanced at his leg, which had also a deep gouge, now clotted and dark. That needed treating too, otherwise infection would take hold.

Seniorita Margill stood swiftly and made her way back to the cockpit where Beatty and Smith were working, a little quicker this time, Juana noticed. These men would be grateful for it. Intent in their work neither the surgeon or his assistant noticed a tall woman, heavily made up and bejewelled (or she had been the previous night) in clothing that had never fitted her, appropriating Beatty's instruments and equipment. Further, Juana lifted a brown-glassed bottle of laudanum and even the next bowl of steaming water and prepared bandages, sutures and thread that Smith had organised for Beatty's current patient's stitching of his arm.

It was only when Smith had been taken aback in its absence that his attention was drawn to the locale and he watched, dumbfounded for a moment as a woman walked back towards the aft with his master's belongings.

"Hey! Hey! Hold, there!" Juana did not turn, but hastened her stride to the supplies located on shelves behind Beatty She needed to bathe Robert Young's leg, as she tore his clothing carefully so as not to contaminate his abdomen wound. Then she must assess the bullet-wound, taking care to minimise internal injury, especially so close to the hip and lower bowel.

"What are you doing here?" William Beatty, white-hot fury reflected in his tone, demanded an answer. When none came and, further, Seniorita Margill continued to analyse the bottles, jars and powders, he added, "a woman? Here? Stealing my possessions?"

"Borrowing," replied Juana Margill, waving her hand dismissively, "and strictly speaking, most of these belong to the Royal Navy." She felt a firm hand on her shoulder but Juana did not look from her task – she was after rubbing spirit, to numb the wound directly as it was likely Robert Young would not be able to imbibe it, nor the laudanum come to that.

"You have other men to treat," Juana continued when Beatty did not reply, and she deftly shrunk from his grip, "I expect that they need you to do that, rather than talking to me."

"Why, you – " Beatty made to look at her, but Juana deftly moved to one side, stepping widely to the right. There. Rubbing spirit. Or blind man's folly.

"How dare you – " he asked again, " – Smith! Send for Lieutenant Quilliam! Directly!" Not wanting to make a grab to restrain the woman, not least for fear of his precious belongings, instruments and liquors, he watched as Juana Margill stepped lightly in the direction of the makeshift hospital ward aft.

"What are you doing here?" he tried again, at a loss as what to say in a situation where a woman he had never met before was raiding him and doing her level best to avoid him.

"I'm here to help, Mr. Beatty. And I'm starting right here, with those in most need." Had a neutral witness been present they may well have laughed heartily as a woman bustled around the surgeon's realm helping herself so outrageously.

Kneeling beside Robert Young, Juana worked swiftly, wiping and dressing her deep leg gouge, so deep she could almost see the bone, before tearing his shirt and bindings to reach the site where the bullet had penetrated.

"My love," he began as he worked efficiently and nimbly, "I will never, _never_, – " thankfully the bullet was not too deep and would be easy to remove, " – put my work second to you – " but the muscle, tissue and tendons were severed in several awkward places, " –again." She prepared the sutures, having rinsed the wound with copious amounts of alcohol and the instruments too.

"Oh my _darling_," Juana cried empathetically as her eyes flickered, the laudanum she had administered still taking effect. "You will live, and I will show you," she concluded as she darned neatly the inner flesh before closing Robert Young's outer. It would be weeks…months probably, before it had healed properly, and of course, the chances of familial opportunity had more than likely come to an end. Looking at him, she used the remainder of the clean bandages to wipe his face tenderly.

Juana sighed, her brown creased with worry. What concerned her most was her beloved's unconscious state. That he were awake to explain where it hurt, to shout and scream, to bellow, to cry…those sounds would be sweet music compared to the deathly silence, bar his ragged breathing, that confronted her now.

No! Not deathly! He would live, of that Juana was determined, with all the skill she had, with all his piety and bravery. God would see to that. Juana Margill rested her head gently on Robert Young's chest.

Oh my darling, my darling, she whispered, not knowing whether her words had had enough energy to stir the air and actually make sound. A part of her knew she could offer help to others, but, looking at her beloved, in her arms, the thought evaporated as her lips murmured a song, one of her early adolescence.

"…Lá na mara…" she whispered in Gaelic as she stroked his arm, "lá na mara nó rabhart… 'sé mo laoch mo ghile mear…suan gan séan ní bhfuair mé féin…o chuaigh i gcéin mo ghile mear…", then, in English, "…no rest or happiness, since you went away…to the sea…to follow the waves…" she reached up to stroke his hair tenderly, "…my gallant darling…"

Lieutenat Quilliam, standing just inside the deck's doorway that led back out to the cockpit, waited a few moments at this Spanish Seniorita lulling and cooing over her love so affectionately, such a beautifully sad moment (for the man was like to die) and had made to turn, to address the situation later. Then the resemblance of the Spanish seniorita's beloved caught his eyes and Quilliam's mind jumped back to early that morning. He turned to the cockpit, calling out to a middie who was assisting with the men who Beatty had already treated. John Carslake jerked his head.

"Mr. Carslake, call for Captain Adair, if you please." Then he turned back to Juana and frowned at her. Clearly the mizzenlad was in no fit state to answer for why he was not still incarcerated. This woman would know, he was bound.

"Madam!" Juana's pale eyes jerked in the lieutenant's direction, her expression malevolent.

"Si?"

"Name?"

"Stephen Maturin."

"No, madam, I want your name…"

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	32. Duty

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"I call to this court-martial Miss Cicely Hollum." Vice-Admiral Cuthbert Collingwood looked to the people assembled before him.

It had been two weeks since the biggest and most decisive sea battle in living memory. Some of the British fleet had returned, having lost no ships, to the port of Cadiz, a less hostile place as a result. Spain had made steps to withdrawn its alliance with France and to overthrow Joseph Bonaparte, their incumbent king, inflicted on them by Napoleon himself; welcoming their enemies into their country, even on an informal basis.

The French-Spanish alliance, those ships that had not been captured as prizes by the British or sunk had surrendered and were escorted back to England with the bulk of the fleet. Four ships however, remained at large.

Those assembled here, sitting on simple wooden chairs which some official or other had tried to smarten up using ties and ribbons were the captains and commanders of the ships that returned with them from Trafalgar and retinue, about three-dozen or so people, including the captains of the French ships (now prizes amongst others) Redoubtable and Bucentaure, Dupuytren, Lebec, Admiral Villeneuve amongst them. There too of course, adjacent Jack Aubrey sitting quietly and unassumingly was Stephen Maturin, adjacent whom Cicely had risen with obvious difficulty.

Cicely looked straight ahead at Collingwood, who smiled momentarily in encouragement as she took her place. To the left of the Vice Admiral stood Captain Eliab Harvey, of HMS Temeraire; he was council for the defence. To Collingwood's right Donald McGregor, the sour, staid post captain who now served as Lord Nelson's private secretary at sea, council for the prosecution.

McGregor was relishing the role, Jack had noted but, as he had offered himself for the trial, in an attempt to allay the severity of his misdemeanour, it was a pain he must bear. Though courts-martial were matter of course when a captain lost his ship it did not bring with it shame; deliberately disobeying orders, however, did and could result in imprisonment, up to ten years.

He looked at McGregor again, his emotionlessness overriding his obvious pleasure in the fact that Aubrey may well be brought down. And, thought Aubrey sourly, McGregor was clearly sticking to the old adage that one rose faster in naval hierarchy when anchoring to a desk and resisting the sea.

He followed Cicely's awkward gait as she made it to the place between Collingwood and Captain Harvey, a mixture of surprise at her appearance and sympathy for her condition milling in his chest. She was the fourth to give evidence, behind Lieutenant Mowett and Doctor Hardy, the latter merely attesting to his transfer to the Surprise. The first had been himself and Jack had plainly stated the facts as he had seen them, the events of the day, but he suspected that more was being made of the court-martial than on the face of it.

It had been a shock to say the least, in the melee of celebration, jubilation and high spirits in which the Surprise was engaged when it docked at Cadiz to find a tall woman, thin and poorly dressed holding what seemed to be a slight, unconscious and badly wounded landsman. The woman had urgently explained that she had Robert Young here for their Captain and at once Captain Howard had called for the plank, ushering them both aboard, the name of this woman of strange appearance being ignored for the present.

The woman had explained to the Captain, once both had been ushered into his office, that Robert Young had been injured in the course of the battle upon HMS Victory and her tone had an injured quality to it, as if he, Jack, had personally put this woman out.

"…she must rest of course," continued the woman using intonation which Jack Aubrey had found hauntingly familiar. He had, of course, made Cicely comfortable in his quarters again, before his mind burst forth its indignant curiosity once they were back in his office. She was a sight to behold – hair wild; makeup worn and patchy, half a necklace, a dress torn at the sleeve, lace coming away from the hem. And leather boots….? The woman had stopped and stared at Jack before Stephen Maturin pulled the hairpiece from his head said to him, "I see you've managed to preserve my 'cello."

It turned out he had presented himself in this bizarre apparel with Cicely in his arms as Jack had just seen them to Lord Nelson just before they had disembarked, having been under a kind of arrest by a very confused Lieutenant Quilliam. He had given the Surprise as his residence, apologised for his appearance and explained, briefly, that Cicely was his wife and had saved his life before asking permission to leave the Victory and return to Jack. His attention was drawn back to Cicely who was now being offered a bible, naval issue.

"I swear by almighty God that I shall tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth." Cicely's voice rang out earnestly and betrayed no measure of the pain her injuries must still have been causing her. Indeed, she had not even used it as an excuse to appear before a naval court dressed as a mizzenlad; though her trousers were wider and shirt more voluminous it was something akin to it at least.

McGregor had challenged her on it as she had entered the chilly, open town hall which the navy had requisitioned from the town's mayor for the event (more for the show of it for the indigenous population, to show Britain's navy operated on an open, clear basis), calling for Cicely to return in her own female attire. She had replied that this was her own clothing and she would not appear before the court in anything else. Cicely had known it was a little rash as it was Jack Aubrey's reputation on trial and, after his kindness would be insulting

"Indeed," Lord Nelson had added, just over McGregor's shoulder as they stood in the hall's front doorway, "usual female clothing would not be appropriate for the injuries you have suffered, madam." Collingwood had agreed.

"Perhaps ye could begin by telling us when you first came to be aboard HMS Surprise? When ye first took up yoor guise?" As prosecutor Donald McGregor, in his grating Scots accent (which, had there been humour or ease in it might have been described as "rugged") led the questioning. His questions had been careful, Jack had noticed, and well-chosen.

"Just over eighteen months ago," replied Cicely, her voice steady. She knew she would be questioned at length and, as a witness (and protagonist) her evidence was important in this case, in view of Aubrey's character.

"And this was yoor first time aboard a man-o'-war?" She shook her head. The room, although nearly November, was warm and its decoration, in the Spanish style, overstated and very decorative, something which Cicely actually thought she was growing accustomed to during the long time it had taken to question Jack about his conduct at the battle.

"No, she replied, "in the time I was at sea, in order to seek my brother Edward, I took myself aboard many a warship, at least six, I think, before I'd managed to locate the Surprise."

"Indeed? And ye travelled disguised as a boy?"

"I worked as a boy, yes," Cicely replied, "I did my share, did what I'd been employed to do and it served me well in crossing the Atlantic."

"So ye met up with the Surprise in the Americas?"

"Sao Paolo," Cicely replied. McGregor stopped momentarily, "it's a port in Brazil," she added. Jack stifled a snigger at McGregor's now furious face at the obvious being pointed out to him, as did one or two other people present, probably others he had crossed in the past. McGregor controlled his urge to snap at her and continued.

"I worked at my undertaking as an unskilled landsman, a mizzenlad as they say a'decks," she added, over the low gasps from some of the officers present at the singularly outrageous situation Cicely was describing, "may I just say sir that Captain Aubrey was quite unaware of my being anything other than a boy. He was entirely honourable."

"And what, pray, caused Captain Aubrey to discover yoor identity?" pressed McGregor, ignoring the praise Cicely had heaped on Jack Aubrey.

"My brother," replied Cicely, her voice remaining as steady as she was able as she recounted in her minds' eye the events of that fateful evening. "It was rumoured – " she inhaled heavily, " – that he had brought bad luck to the ship and as such, took his own life."

She fixed on a large yellow and red mural painted onto the whitewashed wall at the back of the hall – Cicely knew full well if she had looked at anyone, not least Jack or Stephen, she would weep pitifully there and then. She had vowed that she would not behave like a petticoated woman before the naval officers.

"The minute Captain Aubrey discovered my identity," she continued boldly, "he isolated me from the rest of the men and debated what the right and proper thing to do with me was."

"And what was the reet and proper thing to do?"

"As far as I was concerned it was to fight on in my brother's stead, and I put this to Captain Aubrey." Cicely exhaled heavily. She knew this exertion was taking, and would take its toll on her, but she also knew the severity of Jack's accusation of dereliction. He had been reasonable with her as a mizzenlad and kind to her as a friend.

"So ye married Captain Aubrey's surgeon." Cicely nodded.

"Could you furnish the court the circumstances under which this marriage took place?"

"I expressed my desire to complete my brother's duty so he could pass into the kingdom of heaven. Dr. Maturin, the physician, suggested to the Captain that, as a married woman, this would allow me freedom of conduct aboard the Surprise with little problem with the crew."

"A marriage o' convenience?"

"Convenient for the briefest of days." Cicely looked across at Stephen, remembering the first flush of affection she remembered feeling for him, when he had been holding her raw hands and inspecting them, battered as they had been by the backward "toughening up" ways practiced by seamen of the Surprise. "We learned to love one another in time." Stephen returned the smile and Cicely's poor heart, long wrenched through months of anguish, twisted in happiness.

"And _what_ duty did ye undertake?" McGregor's lips curled – this was the point of the matter, the crux, the heart, Aubrey knew. Cicely hesitated. She had done this to fight the Acheron. _Go on_, urged Jack, silently willing Cicely on. Tell them the truth.

"I fought with the crew against the Acheron, the enemy ship we had encountered in the waters near the Galapagos Islands." Cicely's expression was neutral; she had spoken plainly and truthfully yet she knew that Jack's career may hang on what she had just imparted to the court. Even McGregor, to whom, and the Admirals, the knowledge was not new (Cicely had had the honour of being interviewed by Lord Nelson at her bedside when she had regained consciousness) the statement of it was still shocking; to those others assembled it was outrageous.

"Silence, please!" demanded Admiral Collingwood, before looking back to Cicely and McGregor.

"Captain Aubrey did order me not to fight," Cicely added evenly, "he is an honourable captain, as I said earlier, Captain McGregor."

"Once the battle was o'er, what happened then?" McGregor seemed eager to press on. "Did ye remain aboard HMS Surprise?" Cicely nodded.

"For a time. We were far from England, Captain McGregor, being in the middle of the Pacific. I became with child and agreed to the proposal that Captain Aubrey had presented, which was to reside with his wife at his estate." Cicely breathed out. That was it. She had bared her soul. Let it be advantageous to Jack, she begged silently. Admiral Collingwood thought it was over too as he raised his hand in order to dismiss her but instead McGregor, instead of moving aside to allow her by as she turned, stood fast and continued.

"And the bairn?" Cicely said nothing and her expression asked that no-one press her either.

"But ye were sought by yoor father, were ye not, once you returned t' England?" McGregor changed tack. Silence won supreme and Cicely faltered. She knew that Nelson was aware of this; he had spoken to her of it when he had visited her, but he had too said that the issue would be resolved at a time she was well enough to speak to him of it. Cicely had not expected to have to recount the tale before these people, Jack too, and especially Stephen. She had told him, of course, at length, but how did the situation concern this court?

"Ye were sought by yoor intended husband too?" Cicely said nothing.

"Did Captain Aubrey know that yoor father is the Marquis of Gloucester? And that Benjamin Wigg, Magistrate, a wealthy man, is yoor betrothed?"

"My father's intended husband for me," Cicely rallied with all the grace she could muster, her face pinking. The seaman in her felt like pounding Donald McGregor into the ground for his cheek and she clenched her fists by her sides venting her temper silently. "I have no idea whether Captain Aubrey knew of my father, neither Magistrate Wigg. Perhaps if you were to ask him yourself? He may have done with respect to my brother. And to your other point, Captain McGregor, both my father, and Mr Wigg it seems, were seeking me as they had discovered that I was then back in England. I considered it reasonable that I return to my husband."

Yes, thought Jack. I know your diversion now – had I planned to utilise Cicely's identity for my own gain?

"But ye ran away from yoor hostess, did ye not? Mrs Aubrey? And sought manual work as ye did so?"

"Yes," confirmed Cicely, pride at her actions coming to the fore now. She had worked for her passage, not begged or stolen, not whored. "I was a navigational for several weeks." She knew the news, the details she were about to reveal here, was news to Stephen and she saw him look up from his notebook, that which Cicely had returned to him in not quite the state Blakeney had given it to him, and stare at her attentively as several of the other men in the room. Quite how astonishing the story unfolding before them was they wanted to find out.

"Aye," mused McGregor sourly, "then a soldier ye became, then a sailor, then a soldier again, finally a sailor?" Cicely nodded. She had owned up to it to Nelson – these men knew already and now it was confirmed for the official record.

"What happened after ye finished with the canal firm?"

"I was taken on by Major Blunt, of the 105th rifles, purely as an aid to making it to a ship. Matthew Harris, currently of the Surprise, vouched for me."

"And will he attest to yoor claimed capture and interrogation under the French spymaster Joseph Fouche?" There was a united gasp – Fouche was notoriously vicious and cruel in his manner and methods of extracting information from his prisoners.

"We were both prisoners, yes," corrected Cicely, "and I am sure he would."

"Excuse me, _my Lord_." Jack Aubrey's honeyed baritone voice spoke out as he stood and addressed Lord Nelson. "It is I, not Mrs Maturin, who is on trial here – "

"No, indeed," replied Nelson, raising a hand as if inviting Jack to sit back down again, however he did not call him over his affront.

"Indeed," repeated Collingwood, "however her account binds the truth together, does it not?" he asked Jack, as to all. "As an egg binds a cake? And after all, it is a fine, extraordinary tale, especially her account in the service. You do not mind airing this with this small company?"

Cicely shook her head, now wishing for her time to be over. A defensive part of her mind thought," and duly recorded for everyone to know." Then, the name "Diana Villiers" skipped through her cerebral hemispheres – he had had the temerity to tell _her_ after all, this mysterious woman, who had begged him to return to her; why should not the highest ranking naval officers hear it too? A split second later the rest of her mind banded together and uttered "shame, shame!" to her conscience.

Collingwood looked over to McGregor, "Captain, if you would be so good as to curtail your questions and limit them to the case in question?" McGregor said nothing, just nodded curtly.

"Would ye be so kind, Miss Hollum, to give us barest details of yoor imprisonment by Fouche, those ye think most pertinent to the case?"

"I was questioned by Joseph Fouche, who told me that my husband's life was in danger. He charged me with a duty aboard HMS Victory."

"To kill Admiral Lord Nelson?"

"No, to _save _him. His reasoning was, if the Lord Admiral were to live, the French would always have a target and would win eventually. Were he to be killed he would be ever a artyr."

"But ye deserted yoor ship, and officially, ye have a charge of a flogging o'er yoor head?"

"Fouche had told me I must discover the identity of the assassin, then kill him myself. When I had found him, who I thought was the one who would do this deed, I wavered – I couldn't be sure this man was who I thought he was."

"Miss Hollum, ye do not seem unhappy that ye have disobeyed yoor father…"

"_Irrelevant_!"

"Be quiet, Captain Aubrey, or I will have you on a charge of contempt, as well." Collingwood's words rang out sharply and Jack's eyes widened with surprise for it had been Stephen who had interrupted. Cicely however, continued regardless.

"Indeed I am not. My father is a bully; he drove away my brother, who was in the service of Captain Aubrey of the Surprise [Jack couldn't help it, he looked away from Cicely]. It is the reason I came to be in the Captain's company originally, as I have said. I sought refuge from my eventual fate."

"But is it not a father's prerogative?"

"Indeed, I suppose it is. But not against a daughter's wishes," Cicely replied evenly. Indeed, remembered father's words, the last words he had ever spoken to her before she had decided to quit: I would make you a whore to the Prince Regent and the whole of the court if it meant I gained from it: just you remember that, you baggage! "Should I be in a church with that brute of a man next to me, I would be dishonouring God by promising to love him for the rest of my life, when I would in fact be loathing and detesting him. My father and Benjamin Wigg stood to gain much by the match." McGregor snorted derisorily.

"That is the way of the world, Miss Hollum," he chuckled condescendingly, "but I grant ye, matrimony against the will of one party is not legal."

"And my father will contest it, if you stand by your original assertion that you would return me to England," Cicely added, her eyes drifting over to the Lord Admiral. His return look, the glint in his eyes, told her he already knew this.

"Thank you, Miss Hollum," concluded Captain McGregor. He stood aside and Cicely took a step.

"Any questions from the defence?" Collingwood looked across to Captain Harvey, who had been mute for Cicely's entire testimony. This was now to continue albeit for a few words.

"Miss Hollum had twice asserted her confidence in Captain Aubrey's honour during the prosecution's questioning," he said efficiently. "That is enough for me."

"Thank you, Miss Hollum, you may take your leave." Admiral Collingwood smiled briefly at Cicely, who was glad to be gone.

"Thank you," replied Cicely. "It's 'Mrs Maturin', Admiral Collingwood," she corrected him. "I'll not get a flogging, then?"

"My dear, you have given more than enough blood to the service as it it!" declared Nelson, a wisp of joviality to his tone, "and I for one am sorely grateful for it!" A laugh went up from the assembled men, which was hurriedly damped down by one and all as they remembered their place.

Almost as soon as Cicely made to sit down next to Stephen, to hold onto his arm with relief than "Dr. Maturin" was called to the stand.

"And what was yoor mission, Dr. Maturin?" McGregor opened the questioning directly, once Stephen had made his confidence with the bible.

"That I cannot say," he replied honestly. Stephen thought about his toil, through hostile France, into the home of a friend in Andorra and into his own homeland of Catalonia. That was the difficult part, the part Wickham had made him endure. That Wickham had then made an attempt on his life had brought another order to the fore, one which he had harboured close for so many years it was as familiar to him as his name.

"What I can say my Lord is that my orders came directly from Sir Toby Hamilton."

"The old Jug, eh?" Stephen tried not to smirk as, in all seriousness, Admiral Lord Nelson had referred to Hamilton by the name he and…Wickham had so often used. His recurring astonishment that William Wickham was actually the traitor who would make an attempt on Nelson's life Stephen brushed from his fore-mind.

"I had suspicions that there was another aboard who may well have been your undoing, Admiral," Stephen continued, "James Fillings. He had served under Captain Aubrey, had been chosen by Thomas Pullings to crew the Acheron and, once that ship had foundered, somehow his name had found its way into my realm as being aboard HMS Victory."

"Can ye avail us of more about this Fillings?" Cicely sighed. Here it was. James's character to be pulled to shreds. To her, James was…had been…her friend. He had shared his fears with her, and she with him; they had looked out for one another, been there when no-one else wanted anything to do with two outcasts To her, James had been thoroughly misguided and though his own naivety had been manipulated to his death.

"His father was an infamous hostile spy with Jacobite sympathies. He had sworn to fight England to the last child."

"Confirmed," replied Admiral Collingwood simply.

"So, are we given to understand that ye were no' imprisoned, as Miss Hollum believed?"

"I was not. That had been William Wickham's intention, now it is clear. He faked my death in Paris; he shot another spy there under the misdirection that it was me. That I found it so difficult to complete my primary mission made me suspicious of his motives." That, and the fact that Wickham had not banked on my inside help, Laurent Burgoyne, assistant to Fouche, he added, but silently to himself. Burgoyne had come through with the information in the nick of time and regretfully paid for with his life.

"And then ye became…what shall I say…the _beauty_ that Lieutenant Quilliam questioned in the cockpit immediately after the battle?" A several snorts, quickly stifled, came from the audience, one, Stephen suspected, made by Jack.

"Captain Harvey, do you have anything you wish to ask the witness?" Captain Harvey, pale, round-faced and pernickety to a man, smiled at Collingwood before nodding towards Stephen.

"You have known Captain Aubrey how long, Doctor?"

"About nine years," replied Stephen.

"And in that time, have you known him to disobey orders?"

"Oh yes, several. None which came from the Admiralty though, as far as I know."

"Would you consider Captain Aubrey to be a fair and honest man?"

"As honest a man, and a captain could be. I cannot say how accurately he follows the orders from your good selves," Stephen continued, "for he does not confide them to me. Of his character, I have always found Captain Aubrey to be is rigid in his discipline, which buoys his men; fair; even-minded; loyal to the last to the service. I would go so far as to say he loves the Navy more than he loves his wife."

"Gamely put," said Collingwood quietly. "Any further questions, Captain?"

"And what of the traitor Wickham now?" Harvey, seemingly satisfied with Stephen's fondant-like description of Jack's nature and disposition, returned to the subject of this now-known, very high profile defector.

"Hanged once I catch him."

"Or anyone else," added Collingwood to the assembled captains.

No, contradicted Stephen silently, once _I_ catch him.

Five minutes later, after Guilliame Dupuytren gave evidence of his humane and gentleman-like treatment of his good self aboard the Surprise under Jack, and confirmed that he not only was acquainted but knew very well Dr. Maturin ("we shared corpses during our medical training together to save costs") another Frenchman took the stand. Jean-Baptiste Lebec, tall and broad in physique, dark hair caught back in a blue ribbon, dignified in appearance and manner looked to Collingwood attentively.

Immediately McGregor asked the man his relationship with William Wickham and James Fillings, whom he had killed, about his captaincy in the French fleet and how he was come to loyalty to the English cause.

"It is true," began Lebec, his Breton accent smooth and soothing and though his English was broken in places Lebec's meaning was plain, "I was once a French ship's captain. I fought Captain Aubrey in the Pacific when I was captain of the Acheron. By skill and efficiency, luck and strategy, Aubrey bettered me, though I deceived him in my escape. With my captain-role there was another – I had been recruited by Fouche, a man it is very difficult to say no to."

"It is true to say that the Acheron, through no fault of Captain Pullings, broke apart in the Channel. Very few of us survived. Some of us managed to get to land, we got to a tiny speck of rock, one of Les Ercehous. We clung to it desperately, 'oping that we would be rescued."

"I was stranded with James Fillings. He confessed his plan to me, hoping, I think, for an ally."

"And had he one?" asked Captain McGregor.

"Non! I am against Bonaparte! I only sailed as Captain as I was compelled to; I had searched many opportunities for a suitable manner in which to unchain myself from Bonaparte's grip, through Joseph Fouche.

"Why not report Fillings to Admiral Lord Nelson?" The Frenchman paused.

"Well, I could 'ave. But, I did not know whether Fillings was telling me a story, or whether it was true. He was such a fading thing, I didn't know if he had the strength for it. Besides, I am a British patriot; French born I may be, but France is not in my heart."

Cicely felt tears prick her eyes (he may not be standing here, nor Nelson there, if I'd gone through with it! And Fouche led me to believe my own thoughts too – how convenient for him then if I had killed Jean-Baptiste Lebec. One less turncoat for him to have worried about! Next to her, Stephen too was thinking about Lebec, but for entirely different reasons.

He had not betrayed the true reason as to how he had known Wickham and James, who he had killed to prevent him acting again on Nelson's life, was not there to confirm or deny any of the man's the assertions.

"But how do we know ye are not the traitor? Ye say ye are a patriot yet ye gave Captain Pullings a right run around. And ye freely admit being in contact with Joseph Fouche.

"I was indeed a Captain, sir, with aspirations to promotion." Lebec's voice had grown a little weary but he pressed on, his wide brown brow wrinkling as he spoke. "But when Bonaparte chose to invade Brittany, my homeland, killed my people, many of whom, yes, had royalist sympathies, but did not plot a rebellion as the _so called_ Emperor believed, allowed French soldiers to burned, attack and loot, as if Brittany was some foreign land, when I heard all of this, knowing my family was turned from out home, some of our friends robbed and murdered, my loyalties changed, hence you find me here."

A good story which was probably true; Stephen knew about the Breton resistance of course, but also a further truth of it too – Lebec had decided long before to turn from Bonaparte. Stephen had liberated orders from the captain's desk when the Surprise overwhelmed the Acheron, boarding and taking her as a prize. They had been signed by none other than William Wickham. Jean-Baptiste Lebec, clearly, knew better than most that Wickham was a traitor, hence his actions towards him. Stephen glanced to Lebec, who caught his look and gave a small flick to the corners of his mouth.

Once Monsieur Lebec had returned to his chair Collingwood called for both the prosecution and the defence to name further witnesses, if they so desired. When neither of them did he called Aubrey back to the stand.

"Captain Aubrey," began Admiral Collingwood steadily, "have you anything further to add to your defence?" Jack paused. He had given evidence on the battle and told Collingwood about his orders and his eventual role. What else was there to say?

"Yes sir," he replied at length. "It is claimed that, by my order from Lord Nelson, who told me to sail and not to engage the enemy, it is asserted that I am derelict in my duty for failing to follow a direct order from a superior."

"Go on, Captain," Collingwood urged. "I wish to add that I acted due to the severe nature of the peril the Victory found herself to be in, attacked as she had been by Redoubtable. Under the Articles of War, 1749, it is stated that orders can be circumvented where extreme loss of life is not otherwise preventable and that would give the effect of the greater good benefiting from that suspension of duty."

"I believed in this case, in the peril with which the crew of the flagship found itself, an imminent boarding party on the way being the peril by name, that that counted as an extreme enough circumstance." He was sweating, Jack knew. Hot, irritating perspiration dripped down his back, from his brow and under his armpits as he contemplated the verdict of the court. Guilty and he would be jailed.

Next to him Gillis, Collingwood's secretary, was busily adding Jack's final words to the court's minutes.

"Having considered the evidence," Admiral Collingwood began minutes later, "surrounding the charge of dereliction of duty brought to this court-martial over Captain Jack Aubrey of HMS Surprise." He paused dramatically, although Cicely was sure it was not meant to be so. Jack was now standing next to Collingwood with both Captains, McGregor and Harvey, standing beside them on the outer. It occurred to Cicely that the scene resembled a near-completed game of chess.

"In summary, I hereby find that Captain Aubrey did not break the orders given to him by Lord Nelson, merely bent to their limits. It also pleasure to know that you insisted in this court martial taking place, a most honourable act." He turned and looked at Jack. "Thank you Captain Aubrey for doing your duty." Jack saluted him, his relief showing on every inch of his face. Cicely sighed deeply, but this was barely noticed over the cheers of delight and calls of "Hurrah!" and "Huzzah" from unidentified members of the audience.

"Before you take your leave Captain, it is my pleasure to say that Captain McGregor will furnish you with further orders in due course." Admiral Collingwood, more at ease now the court-martial was finally at an end, took Jack aside momentarily as he spoke to him. "There's no need to look alarmed; I think you will enjoy this mission. You have no need to begin until tomorrow in any case."

Twenty feet away, walking in the direction of the hall's door a conversation between another Admiral and seaman (well, ex-seaman) was now taking place. Cicely, availed of Stephen's company as he went to clap Jack heartily on the back in a congratulatory manner, had made her way alone to the large windows which overlooked the harbour. She was looking at the splendid sight of the British fleet in dock with several of the prizes (the Spanish vessels had been taken by some of the captains back to Britain lest the opportunity to cause offence to their now-warmer port-hosts) as she wondered what the future now held following this glorious victory.

Cicely had woken in Stephen's arms, or at least she had thought it was Stephen, back on the Surprise three days after the battle. What she remembered was the dull agony throughout her body and Stephen had explained that the effects of the laudanum, which had kept her drowsy, had worn off. Cicely had known better than to ask for more – she knew of the potency and what it did to a man.

Jack had been there too, generosity personified, and had allowed her to rest in his cabin. He had allowed her to remain until that morning, when she had insisted she make herself ready for the court-martial and she and Stephen had agreed that they both should reside in his quarters again, Dr. Hardy having departed the Surprise back to the Victory.

"Captain Aubrey has found himself fortunate." Cicely turned to her left, from where the quiet, warm tones were coming and found that she was looking into the face of the Lord Admiral. He too was admiring the fleet but, Cicely wagered, for entirely different reasons to her.

"My Lord," she began, recalling the time when he had spoken to her before, not at her bedside but on board the Victory. He had counselled someone who he had thought to be one of his landsmen against his spectacularly idiotic behaviour on the rail of the ship's main deck and advised, "the early bird catches the worm, but it's the second mouse that eats the cheese." The words, in their entirety, pattered through her mind quickly. "Indeed he has," Cicely replied graciously. "I am so pleased, he really is a good man."

"I am sure of it," replied Nelson, smiling a little yet not taking his eyes from his bobbing realm. "He commands one of my ships, does he not? Were he not brave and strategic, bold and, may I propose it, a chancer of fate, all may have been lost that day."

"Indeed," agreed Cicely. He bent the rules to a happy outcome.

"You remember seeing the letter I showed you from Mr. Gordon, do you not, that I showed you last week?" Unfolding the missive Nelson handed it to her. Cicely looked over it briefly, her mind recalling it.

"Yes, my Lord," she replied unsteadily.

"I did say I would return you to England," he recounted unnecessarily as he glanced at Cicely. "I admire someone who can use his tools advantageously in the manner of Captain Aubrey. As such, I feel duty bound in my position to be able to do so, better even, myself. Just as one bends the sail to make favourable his course, so one might with his would a sail." Nelson leaned closer to Cicely. "My dear, I will bend the rules too," he added, his voice low.

"You save my life, sir," replied Cicely as a swell of relief washed away her knot of fear.

"As you did mine. My private secretary, the good Mr Gordon, outlined in not too plain terms a apt navigable route." Cicely said nothing, but shivered a little in the chill of the room (perhaps female attire, for its quantity, may have been desirable after all?). Here was the commander of the entire British Navy, a man with so much power under his hand and he was taking time to explain to her something which was of little importance to him, in the grand scheme of things but meant a great deal to her.

"As long as you remain abroad, and not return to England, nor to any of her dominions or territory, your father cannot challenge the legality of your marriage." Nelson took a step back, and looked her up and down briefly. "You do have a dress I suppose? I am sure you would look most comely in it."

"What do you propose, my Lord?" Cicely's mouth said as she thought of the blue dress, originally intended for Sophie Aubrey, that Stephen had put aside, that she had discovered when she'd returned to the Surprise, when she'd believed all hope was lost.

"Before I mention it, I need you to vouchsafe a promise to me, Mrs Maturin." Cicely nodded.

"Yes, my Lord?"

"You will never attempt to enter my navy again, as either a man, or a woman….confide, Mrs Maturin, that you will not hand, reef and steer on my navy's ships again!" Cicely grinned. An easy promise, for she had made a similar one to Stephen that very morning.

"Of course, my Lord yes. And may I say what a great privilege it has been serving under such a benevolent First Lord as yourself." There. Formally discharged from the Service, though, Cicely thought, probably without honours.

"My chaplain, Alexander Smith is willing to offer his services to whit matrimonial ambition between the good Doctor Maturin and yourself."

"Marriage?" Cicely's mind flicked over the possibility and the Admiral's plan became clear in her mind as a costal view when both proximity was reduced and visibility increased.

"I am sure a suitable escort for you could be found, and…did you say you had a dress?"

"Yes my Lord, a blue one." Cicely beamed. If her father or Magistrate Wigg were known to Lord Nelson; indeed they would probably be giving someone at Admiralty House a deal of difficulty, she supposed, then one such as he might hardly pass up an opportunity to curtail their influence.

"Splendid!"

Then her mind faltered, she felt nervous and awkward. They had married for convenience just over a year before, though it was love now, would he be prepared to do it again? To solemnise it to satisfy the law, certainly, but was his heart true to mean his vows before God? Cicely looked, wide eyed at Nelson, about to do something which did not come easily to her.

"May I beg your assistance a little further?" Nelson said nothing and waited for her to continue. A lump offear began to swell in Cicely's throat. "I beg you, my Lord, could _you_ put this scheme to him?" She swallowed, "What I mean to say is, could _you _explain it to Stephen?"

The Lord Admiral frowned a little, then he broke out into a guffaw of laughter. Several people some feet away turned at the noise in the otherwise quietly bustling, slowly emptying hall. Cicely looked at him in sheer amazement.

"My dear! Madam," he began, still smiling widely. He put a hand to her back. "It was Dr. Maturin who put it to _me_!"

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It had been agreed that the wedding would be sanctified aboard the deck of the Surprise as the first, but, once the numbers had been considered, the Lord Admiral had offered the more spacious flagship's decks. Cicely had managed to alter her dress using a dissimilar colour which would not be seen and had been visited on numerous occasions in Stephen's quarters by a very excited Lieutenant Blakeney who, in between gabbling to Stephen about his interim discoveries since he had last seen the doctor, his joy at Cicely being there and the manner in which she was altering the garment (the boy was of the Renaissance in his universal enquiries) and the business of the ship which neither inspired Stephen (though he listened patiently) and Cicely, whose mind had been absent with her alterations to the once fine and beautiful dress and had decided not to listen intently in any case.

Stephen had come up with the notion aided by Jack that she should reside in the captain's cabin that night for propriety (Cicely had decided not to open that line of questioning) and both had seemed so pleased with the idea that she had capitulated, much though she would have preferred to have remained with him. Cicely had had an idea that Stephen and Jack would be keeping one another company, as had Will Blakeney who, via his network of between-decks crawl-spaces, had returned to Cicely and kept her company until the small hours.

During her time with Will she had noticed that he had with him Stephen's now well-battered childhood notebook and, choosing not to question Blakeney about his possession of it, allowed him to share his rum ration with her, as they had done in the past, reminisced over the past couple of years, of James Fillings, of Lebec, of their furious fight with the Acheron. Of his discovery that she was not Edward Hollum's brother…and generally put her landsman-days behind her.

Once she had stepped up to the quarterdeck the next day, given away as she had been by Aubrey, but this time married by Reverend Smith, Cicely had mused on the reputed misfortune of being twice-wed, a thought-enquiry which had kept her nerves in check before countless important naval officers and several hundred men.

The deck milled with everyday activity once the ceremony was over and Cicely, looking into her husband's pale green eyes, felt a rush of contentment. They were married, officially now. It had been duly recorded in the log and the requisite paperwork had been issued and signed and she had turned and beamed at the crew of the Surprise, her family, who cheered her heartily. She was Mrs Maturin now, again, as she once was, as she had been, as she now would be.

"I thought you may find this amusing," said Jack, after congratulating both of them and he handed a letter past Cicely to Stephen. She noticed the official Admiralty seal on the outer and guessed it was his orders. "I am officially exonerated of all charges of dereliction, and have my orders," he said with a satisfied grin.

"Indeed, which I am sure are easily stretched," ragged Stephen. Then he looked up as Admiral Lord Nelson approached them. Jack lowered his orders. He was going to keep these for a long time, dig them out at moments when he was very low and imagine McGregor's stone-faced expression as he had handed them to him.

"May I kiss the bride?" Cicely smiled as Nelson took her hand and pressed his lips to it lightly. "Congratulations to you both," he added, looking at Stephen, before glancing at Jack, his orders still in hand.

"May I be so bold as to ask you, Dr. Maturin, for the company of your wife for several moments? I am sure you gentlemen can amuse yourselves in the meantime?"

Once she and Nelson had moved away from Jack and Stephen, who had continued their discussion of Jack's missive he waved his arm openly to the ocean.

"It was here, Mrs Maturin, where I would have fallen if that man's bullet had penetrated," he began. There were so many, Cicely thought, being fired from Redoubtable, I wonder, had I not saved you from James's, others may well have found their mark.

"Perhaps I will commission a brass plaque to put on the spot where you threw me?" He gestured to the mid-deck planks. "It is no mean thing that you did, madam, and no less brave. I have seen many an officer flee at first cannon-fire, or lose his nerve once battle begins to rage. Were you a man I would gladly see you in my Navy – nay! I would glory in the honour of it." Cicely said nothing. More than anything, for Nelson to praise her as he had just done, was worth all the jewels of Africa, of all the gold and silver from the Americas too.

"Now I will bid you farewell. Captain Aubrey has his orders and we have to get our prizes back to England. May I ask, what will you do?"

"I will sail with the Surprise," Cicely reiterated, "and be with my husband. I'll turn my hand to whatever Captain Aubrey needs me to; try to teach the hands to read, those that wish to try, that is." Nelson hmph'd his approval. "My uncle, my mother's brother, sent a letter to me offering me welcome in Sarawak. That is my ultimate destination, and it will afford Dr. Maturin the time to complete his work for the Royal Society."

"Indeed?"

"It is his long-held ambition," clarified Cicely, then added, "May I intrude on the Navy's kindness a little more, should Captain Aubrey's orders be compatible?" Nelson smiled warmly.

"Indeed you may, Mrs Maturin, indeed you may."

Jack's orders were indeed compatible and he had relayed them to Stephen as Cicely and Lord Nelson spoke. His quarry, four ships of the French-Spanish alliance, which had been the final vessels at the southern-most end of the formation, had evaded capture by the British fleet under Rear Admiral Pelley: Formidable, Scipion, Duguay Trouin and Mont Blanc.

They had originally headed for the Straits of Gibraltar, Jack had conveyed, but Pelley had changed his mind, and were now at large in the Atlantic, several sightings of them sailing a northern course back to France. In short, Jack was to hunt these prizes and return then to Britain

"Four prize ships." Jack relished the words as he put away his orders. Then he looked to his friend. "You are happy to resume your duties then, Stephen?"

Dr. Maturin nodded. He was more than happy – the ship was becoming his first home, it could take him anywhere in the world he wished to investigate (just not always following the most direct route). And of course, Cicely would be there. _His_ Cicely, his darling wife who he loved most dear. Yes, he would be happy. The latter sentence he relayed to Jack before looking over to her, then fixing his eye keenly on Nelson.

"A storm is coming," Stephen looked up at the clear sky, before back to Jack. "I speak metaphorically, old man," he added, "but we sail to new horizons."

"Old horizons," corrected Stephen, before looking back to Nelson again. The question was not when in the world he would encounter Wickham again, it was where. "Thank God I have done my duty," he added, smiling at Cicely as she walked away from Nelson, for it was the Lord Admiral who he looked upon as he thought what might have been had it not been for all manner of things.

"Thank God we all have, Stephen," replied Jack, as Stephen took Cicely tenderly in his arms, and to himself, repeated, thank God we all did.


	33. Horizons Old

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Stephen turned the bullet over and over in his fingers as he contemplated the mollusc before him. Its reproductive system appeared to be fused to its digestive system, something which he had never seen before and he wondered whether he just had a variation of from the brightly-coloured _nudibranchae_ he has seen before or another species of _gastropoda_ altogether. He looked at the door, then back to the bullet, which he stopped turning before slipping down into the palm of his mind.

Though he preferred to think of the world without such weaponry (it harmed too many of the species he wished to study; practically decimated colonies, species even if it were to continue) this bullet he kept as a reminder to himself, a reminder that it was vital to know what one could about the enemy. He would bear that in mind in the future, when next he encountered the treacherous ex-spymaster William Wickham.

Of the bullet's origin he had said nothing to Cicely. Whether he would in the future, once things were firmly in the past, he was not sure either. What he did know was that though James intended to shoot Nelson, and Cicely as a result of her own action, he hadn't actually done so. The type of bullet he was holding, that he had painstakingly removed from her body attested to that.

Just outside their quarters, halfway towards the main deck in a sheltered lee of the hull-rail Cicely was examining a letter she had received from Sophie Aubrey. Sinking down and sitting cross-legged in her wide-legged trousers she pulled her overjacket around her shoulders and held the paper parallel with her face, trying to read the neat copperplate hand as the November winds tousled its edges. She had been injured certainly; a horseshoe-shaped scar level with her hip on her lower abdomen would be a permanent reminder of her bravery (or, from another point of view, her blazing stupidity. She would heal in time, Cicely knew, and little exertion on her part for several weeks would hasten it.

The contents of Mrs Aubrey's letter fell into her lap, namely one folded piece of paper which contained another letter, addressed to her at Litten Hall. The latter was a hand she also recognised but Cicely drew her eyes back to the one from Sophie and read the dear lady's words.

She reassured Cicely that she had every faith in her, in her character and reputation; that she understood entirely why Cicely had felt compelled to take the course of action that she had and hoped that, God willing, they would be reunited again. Cicely read the letter again and held it to her chest. Warm pleasure, like caramel, dripped into her as Sophie Aubrey's kind words filled her up. It was a relief to know that her hostess felt no animosity towards her and further, that she wished them to meet again.

It took a few moments for Cicely to realise that Sophie had written further words on the back of the letter. Once she had read those Cicely bent her head onto her knees, the letter sandwiched between her forehead and thighs and wept tears which hadn't been formed yet, her diaphragm contracting uncontrollably. At length she swallowed and thought back to the package that Midshipman Barrington had delivered to Stephen, another piece of post which appeared to have waited a long time for its recipient.

For what was inside was something Cicely never believed in her wildest imaginations could be in there. Dr. Robert Darwin had sent to Stephen Maturin a transcribed copy of his father's original copy of "Zoonomia". Not in its entirety of course (that would have taken years) but the chapters that Dr. Darwin had been aware that he would be interested in reading, from his lengthy conversation with Cicely in his library.

Sophie Aubrey also reassured her that none of her past actions with respect to the Darwins had been held against her by them, Sophie's friends, and that she was welcome, either in the company of her husband, or alone, to visit the Mount again and view the whole book.

Oh Mrs Aubrey! Cicely cried out silently to the air. How good you are! How good your friends are! Cicely felt a wrench in her chest as the euphoria of acceptance, kindness and thoughtfulness washed over her.

Then she took up her other letter, and was stabbed in the chest by further human consideration: her uncle had managed to get a letter to her, addressed as it was to her at Litten Hall. He conveyed his deepest condolences and sorrows for Edward's death and reiterated his invitation for her, and her husband so she wished, to join him on Sarawak, where he had been proclaimed King! Of all things!

It was moments like these, Cicely considered, that far outweighed those dreadful dark days that she had experienced in the past. Picking up Sophie's letter again she re-read it, lest the pleasure of happiness left her just yet.

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"Does it matter that you haven't gained your commission yet?" Cicely's eyes wandered from her cot-hammock at the unopened parcel still residing on the large oak table that Stephen was still working on later that evening. "We will be returning to the South Pacific eventually, will we not?"

"Eventually, my dearest, eventually." Cicely looked back to her letter from her uncle. She was used to Stephen talking to her as he worked – he had the knack of being able to give her his undivided attention, fully taking in her meaning and phrasing, processing them and giving a coherent answer.

"Anywhere near the Galapagos Islands?" Cicely knew that in order to advance his hypothesis Stephen needed to study the varied habitats thereupon at length.

"Perhaps. Jack has his orders to follow – I believe we will reside in the Atlantic for a time, though I am sure we will be in the Pacific soon enough. Probably about as soon as Whitsun – the Pacific! What an absurdly irregular name for such a tempestuous sea!" Stephen looked away from his study and with a "ha-ha" smiled slowly at Cicely.

"You gave Blakeney your book back."

"Despite the condition it was returned to me," Stephen nodded, jesting with her over its condition. Cicely had gradually revealed to him the terrifying adventure she had undertaken to return to him and has left few details out (Blunt was one of them).

"It is a pity," she added as she glanced at Dr. Darwin's untouched parcel, "for I am certain that there is a clue in your own work."

"Indeed? For I need information on birds, primarily, that and – "Stephen stopped suddenly, removing is interlinked hands which had been propping up his head and, thrusting them out into the air, he added, " – my dear, I think you may be right!" He got to his feet and made for the door before noticing Cicely was holding out a handful of papers.

"I made a copy once I realised Will had it," she continued in answer to his silent question. "When I didn't have it after waking here, I realised it was important but thought it lost." Stephen sighed with relief and a measure of wonder.

"Did I ever tell you how singular you are, Mrs Maturin?" he made his way slowly over to Cicely, embracing her warmly before relieving her of the potentially vital text.

"I can't promise the diagrams are as accurate as yours," Cicely added, sitting back down on the simple oak chair which had been her companion that long night in Jack's cabin.

"No," replied Stephen, looking up from his shuffling through of them before grinning broadly. "They are _better_!"

"And you are happy to resume your position here?" Cicely knew she was testing him a little – she had to be certain that they would eventually get to Sarawak, to her uncle. She knew beyond all doubt that she should be there not only to unburden Jack Aubrey but to allow Stephen his professional freedom. Should they wish a family, Cicely added, the most important reason of the three to her, this would offer their child the most stability, well away from the grasp of England and its law.

"I must finish this work," Stephen concluded, turning his dark head back to his mollusc. "Jack will still want me as a surgeon, no doubt and I have a spy to capture of course so to be under sail will allow me that liberty."

Cicely felt a little pinprick of sadness in her chest at this apparent inconsideration of her position. Another woman might have thought – what will become of me? Instead, Cicely thought, what can I do?

She thought back to the conversation that she and Jack had had once she had returned to the Surprise. Stephen was auditing his drug supply following Dr. Hardy's return to the flagship (and very grateful he had seemed to be at that prospect, Cicely had observed) and she had had an opportunity to speak at length to him.

"May I say, my dear, for the injuries you have suffered you are looking remarkably well." Jack's face had been ruddy and at ease, full of the orders that he was soon to fulfil and he addressed her warmly and jovially. "Your hair is beginning to lengthen – your appearance is more comely in the fashion, if you do not mind me saying so."

Cicely had sat, and conversed civilly with Jack in her wide-legged trousers and high-collared shirt, the compromise that they had agreed upon for propriety and also for comfort (Cicely would suffer from her battle wounds for some time, she knew, though her shoulder from the marine's bullet when she had deserted the Victory, and the burn to her hand from her fight with Sergeant Major Blunt of the 105th Rifles were almost healed).

She had reiterated her desire to eventually meet with and reside in the company of her uncle in Sarawak, that he had been given the honorary title of King; that Jack would be relieved and that relief had relaxed itself into his visage as she detailed the first two reasons why it was advantageous to pursue the course so. Cicely had also offered her services in the interim.

"You see, it is in all of our interests," Cicely had concluded as Jack paced behind his desk considering her notion.

"My concern is two-fold," Jack had replied. "Sarawak is not exactly compatible with my orders, although it could be reached without too much effort, and it may take several months for I have business in the Atlantic." Cicely had nodded. She had suspected as much and had structured her cause around it.

"I am prepared for that," she had added.

"Well my dear, I wonder whether Dr. Maturin is prepared. He has been without your bounteous and refined company for a great deal of time."

"He is occupied with his work," Cicely had replied, "he is eager for his commission from the Royal Society. It would mean so much to him both financially and for his reputation." Jack had nodded at length, in agreement.

"Do you wish me to broach the subject with Stephen?" Cicely had got to her feet but said nothing, her look had affirmed it: this was exactly what she wished.

"Sarawak is not an English colony, to be sure," Jack had concluded, "and I am positively convinced that there would be diverse enough species to keep his interest, though he does have his heart set on the Solomon Islands or Samoa."

"I will be more at ease, to be sure, when we are in that tempestuous Pacific again." Stephen had turned to talk to Cicely, interrupting her recollection. Trying to not look half-witted, Cicely turned her face to him and smiled at the animation in his eyes. Upon returning to the Surprise and recommencing his work the look had not been far from him.

"There was nowhere I was more aware of my own ignorance than when I was ashore on Heard Island. Birds. Volcanic stratiforms. Reptilia. But the mid-Pacific islands, well – were I to spend three or four years around these shores I should have enough evidence, enough material to construct my argument. You don't mind, do you my love? For if you do, I will gladly throw it all in."

Cicely realised that she must have been staring at him vacantly and Stephen had interpreted it as indifference. Throw it all in! As if you could, whether you wanted to!

"How does Sarawak appeal to your work? Would it be agreeable?"

"Sarawak?" Stephen glanced away for a moment, processing the thought.

"_That's_ in the Pacific," Cicely added unnecessarily.

"Indeed it is; I am certain it contains at least seven types of beetle which would be of a great deal of interest. But – "

He stopped and moved over to Cicely, putting down his spectacles and pushing away his specimen.

"I do think that I we haven't spoken about the relative merits of…" Stephen stood up and moved across to Cicely, the evening sunlight glancing through the window on its way to another part of the world, "…the triple-shift system…?" He encircled his arms around her waist and Cicely put her head against his warm, comfortable chest.

"Or…the dog watch…?" He kissed the top of her head and Cicely held him tighter. She loved these moments, just her and Stephen.

"What about…the admission of women into the Service?" Cicely looked up and frowned momentarily as the jest infiltrated her mind. She whacked his upper arm before snuggling back towards him, her face directed towards the failing light. There were so many wonders around her, natural wonders which she wished to pursue in conversation with Stephen when she had the time: Cicely always suspected that nature was his first true love, but she didn't mind.

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Stephen scraped the bow across the strings of his violoncello, vigorously replicating the lower chords that bound with Jack's minuet main from Mozart's 41st, "Jupiter".

"I do wonder that Cicely would be musical," Stephen said at length, during a quieter section. "After all, her brother's singing replicated the composer's intent most accurately."

"Indeed," replied Jack. It was a pity she did not appreciate music, or at least said not at least. Stephen might have been as amazed at Jack to have seen Cicely plucking the 'cello as his friend was doing now, slinging wistfully to the tune.

"When do you suppose we will be in the South Pacific?" Stephen pushed the taut horsehair over the strings, vibrating them loudly, the friction tense in the wood.

"Several months," replied Jack. "Europe will be our land-cousin for a while yet."

"I should hear of Wickham's whereabouts before long, I am in no doubt; this will assist my pursuit of him, though that my identity is, in part, revealed, makes my work to that end more difficult."

"I shouldn't think Cicely would like to hear you speak so," replied Jack, pushing his fingers down onto the fretboard quickly for the "tutti" section. "She would pine."

"I think her resilience will win through," Stephen opined, "she went through so much besides, I have explained that my work will take at least four years. Lamarck must be made to bear and his notion is painstaking, to say the least."

"In Sarawak." Stephen turned to Jack, his eyes wide as he lowered his bow mid-piece.

"That is the second time this evening I have heard that Dutch country's name mentioned. Should I be aware of something? For you can be sure I cannot figure it." He took up his bow again and began at the top of the non-existent score.

"Not at all; it is just a country I know you have spoken of in the past. It is convenient to my business in the South China Seas."

"Is it?" replied Stephen, not thoroughly convinced by his friend's explanation, but letting it pass nonetheless.

"And I am sure there will be plenty to occupy your wife were she to be by your side."

"Not a day goes by when I consider I have the understanding of my wife, Jack, before she amazes me in some other way." He bounced his bow off the strings as required in the second stanza, complementing Jack's melody. "Sarawak, indeed. Yes, we may go there, Mrs Maturin!"

Jack smiled to himself as he thought of Cicely too, to her hardiness as she took the news of Stephen's apparent death; how she had pushed it inside of herself; how she had vented her feelings towards Jack at his audacity to send mending to her, in her supposition by embroidering intricate decorations inside his tunic.

"You know, she made an impression so great on your wife's friend's husband – "

" – Dr. Darwin?"

"That's the fellow," nodded Stephen, gliding his bow now on the softer section. "He took the trouble to transcribe sections of a book, a book I hold dear in its detail and reputation, that belonged to his father, those sections which were omitted from the published volume! It will help me a great deal, though she does not know I have this yet.

"A good choice you made in your wife," commented Jack, "I commend you. Oh – " Jack put down his bow and violin suddenly and reached inside his shirt. "I almost forgot. This arrived for you a fortnight after you left the ship in Genoa."

He handed Stephen the letter from Diana, well-worn and open. Stephen took it, analysing its condition and noting its sending address, somewhere he knew well, in Paris. He wrinkled his nose slightly.

"I opened it to ascertain Diana's address to tell her about your untimely death," Jack qualified. "I trust you forgive my intrusion." Stephen nodded distractedly as he read the letter through. At length he looked up.

"So, dear Diana thinks me dead," he chuckled, half to himself.

"Shall you correct her?"

"Not yet, Diana, she – " he looked between Jack and Diana, embodied epistolarily, slapping his hand across the top of the letter lightly. " – still believes we can – as the letter implies…" he tailed off, not willing, or daring not finish.

"It disturbed Mrs Maturin, certainly."

"Cicely has seen this?" Stephen's tone was matter-of-fact rather than concerned.

"Yes," replied Jack shortly, looking to his violin as if more concerned with the aria they was about to embark upon. "I had just broken it to her myself of your death. I am sure it means little to her now," he added even though he did not believe that. As she would think on it in time, a woman may well call this threat to her mind, and though Cicely's mind ranged wildly at the time, it was still likely that she harboured the memory.

It didn't appear to bother Stephen however, he merely pushed it inside his coat. You are risking your wife chancing upon it, discovering that you have kept it rather than discarding it to the four winds, Jack was about to say, but then he actually said, "I think you should better study women, as I have said before, with the intricacy and attention to detail you do birds and beasts, my friend," before swooping his arm into the note that was the first in Mozart's "39th".


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